Deep Magic September 2003

Published by
The Amberlin Group, LLC.

Chief Editor - Jeremy Whitted
Managing Editor - Brendon Taylor
Contributing Editor - Jeff Wheeler
Contributing Editor - Melissa Thomas
Associate Editors:
Peter Dahl
JW Wrenn
Rochelle Buck
Mark Reeder
Steven Richards
Matthew Scott Winslow
Usman Tanveer Malik
Graphic Design - Jeremy Whitted
Art Director - Jeff Wheeler
Associate Art Director - Reuben Fox
Marketing - Jeff Wheeler
Legal - Brendon Taylor
Website: http://www.deep-magic.net
Feedback: feedback@deep-magic.net
Cover by Peter Kudriashov
Outcast
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in other sites linked to or referenced
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when visiting other sites identified on
our site or in Deep Magic: The E-Zine
of High Fantasy and Science Fiction.
All Content copyright 2003
The Amberlin Group, LLC
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Table of Contents
Note From the Editors 3
Writing Challenge 4
Survey: The Lamp Post Awards 9
Fantasy Short: The Queen Is Not Amused 10
Featured Artist: Peter Kudriashov 11
Article: Notes on Two Types of Writers 13
SciFi Short: The Bear Hunt 18
Article: To Outline, or Not to Outline? 19
Interview: Kristen Britain 21
Deep Magic Looks at Books 23
Fantasy Short: The Legend of Thytr 27
Interview: Jay Wolpert 28
The Geeks Guide to Grammar 31
Fantasy Novel: The Rise 32
SciFi Novel: Procyx Book 3 33
3
Deep Magic: The E-zine of High Fantasy and Science Fiction September 2003
Note From the Editors
September 2003
The weather is starting to change around here, but in a good way. Sometime this month we
expect our one thousandth subscriber to Deep Magic (1,000 is such a magic number). We
appreciate all of our readers who have told a friend about us.
The votes are in and the selection made for the 2002-2003 winners of Deep Magics Lamp Post
Awards. We watched with bated breath to see which authors and artists met your fancy the
most. See our special announcement on page 9 to learn if any of your favorites won this new and
prestigious award.
In recent weeks weve been brimming with ideas for meeting some of your fantasy and sci-f
reading needs. Many new readers have told us they enjoy reading our back issues. The editorial
staff decided to make it easier to fnd some of the best work we published in our frst year of
existence. We have contacted your favorite authors and compiled a special 400-page anthology
that will begin production this fall. This will be another trade paperback (like Landmoor) and
available on-line and by order at your favorite bookstore.
Right now, enjoy our latest serving of Deep Magic. We bring you the fantasy story The Legend of
Thytr about a cunning soldier in an invading army. In The Queen is Not Amused, learn the tale
of a hapless and helpless fool who struggles with the affections of his queen. And we also bring
you The Bear Hunt a clever tale about a man who discovers that some aliens return what they
borrowwith interest. This month also offers part 2 of M. Thomas article on the types of fantasy
writers, continues the fantasy novel The Rise, and begins the stunning climax to O.R. Savages
previously run novel Procyx. And as a special treat, read our exclusive interview with Jay
Wolpert, one of the screenwriters of the hit movie Pirates of the Caribbean: the Curse of the Black
Pearl. As you can see, weve been very busy.
We would also like to offer special thanks to author Kristen Britain (author of Green Rider and
the new release First Riders Call published by DAW Books) for writing a special article for our
Writing Craft series. See inside for her article Outlines.
All the best,
The Editors
Safe Places for Minds to Wander
4
Writing Challenge
E
ach month, Deep Magic offers an opportunity and
a challenge for our readers who are also writers.
Whether you are a novice who has never written a
fctional paragraph, or a veteran of the publishing
business, you are welcome to participate. These chal-
lenges are designed to help you develop your writing
talents. As incentive, or by way of warning, we select
a small number of submissions each month for publi-
cation. Keep in mind that our writing challenge piec-
es are not edited and are usually written by amateur
writers. We invite you to take us up on this months
challenge (below) by submitting your best effort by
the 15th to writingchallenge@deep-magic.net.
September 2003
Writing Challenge
E
mpathy means putting yourself in anothers shoes,
feeling, understanding, and relating to what they feel.
This is an essential ability for a writer to master.
Without it, Editor Brendon Taylor might only be able to
write about 30-something white male attorneys from
Southeast Idaho. Undoubtedly, there are many fine
tales to be told about just such a character, but at some
point, even Brendons mother may tire of reading them.
Eventually.
The challenge this month is to write a short story,
scene, or encounter through the perspective of some
character as different from yourself as you can imagine.
Choose a character of the opposite gender from yourself,
with a different background, and different interests. Get
into the characters head and portray their emotions,
motivations, and thoughts. Make the character real. You
must avoid shallow thoughts, clichs and stereotypes to
truly succeed at this challenge. Give us your best effort
at becoming someone new in 1000 words or less, due
by September 15, 2003. We cant wait to meet the new
you.
Selections from the
August 2003
Writing Challenge
Dead Dragons
Inukshuk
Playful Pastime
The above stories were selected from
the submissions we received this last
month. As a refresher, here is the writing
challenge from last month:
Dialogue in a story can reveal character and
human dynamics as much (if not more) than
describing their behavior (what they do). Your
challenge is this: write a dialogue scene between
two people who know each other, each tak-
ing the opposite side of an issue or problem.
This should be a verbal dance, not a shouting
match. The issue should be something immedi-
ate (like whether to buy the enchanted Sword of
Haberdashery or which fork in the road of the
Forbidden Forest to take). Keep it simple and
emotionally close to the two people involved.
They should reveal themselves in the diaogue,
meaning they should reveal more than just what
the argument involves. They should reveal a little
about themselves and their personality.
Make both speakers convincingdont just
load the argument one way or the other. Make
each speaker unique in their language, expres-
sions, and tone. Keep in mind the subtext of
the conversationthat is, what the conversa-
tion reveals about the speakers relationship to
each otherthings like power, dominance, love,
antipathy, etc.
(1000 words or less)
Writing Challenge
September 2003 Challenge
5
Writing Challenge
Selections
Dead Dragons
By Author Unknown
Touch it.
You touch it. Im not touching it.
Did it just steam?
I think they do that. Like chickens after you cut their heads off will still run around.
Its a great, big, bloody dragon, not some chicken. I want to know its dead if its
steaming.
Touch it then.
Im not touching it. I cut the head off. You touch it.
There. I touched it.
Oh, yes. Touching it with a six foot twig is really going to bother it.
It didnt move, did it?
It didnt move because it cant feel a six foot twig tickling its smaller left toenail.
Its my best jousting pole.
Its a toothpick if that thing wakes up.
What are we going to do?
What do you mean, what are we going to do? We killed a dragon. Were going to be
heroes. There will be ale and wenches and lots of cheering.
Except for the collar, of course.
What collar?
The enormous leather collar there around its neck with the gold plate that says, My
name is Widgeon, I belong to King Abernathy, who will be happy to have me home. Please
contact my owner at the castle of Yreck if I am lost.
The collar thats disintegrating into the things boiling blood as we speak, you mean?
Yes, that collarah, I see what you mean.
I thought you would. Doesnt look like its going to be a problem. I didnt get welded into
this armor to return somebodys pet. Anyway, what kind of mad king keeps a dragon? And how
come he didnt have it on a leash?
Are you sure they dont grow new heads? Ive heard some of them do that.
Well, I suppose the only way to fnd out is to stick around and watch.
Right. And I would, you know, if Lady Persimmon wasnt waiting for me. She said shed
be very enthusiastic to see me alive again.
Oh? Shes a pip, isnt she? Quite pretty, except for the
Its just a sty. Not a tic. She has a poultice for it.
Ah.
Bend my left arm back the right way, would you?
Of course. Hurt much? That was very brave of you, dashing in like that.
Truth be told, I tripped. You wont tell anyone, will you?
Me? Never. Now what do you suppose that globule is there?
In the middle of the neck? I didnt see that when we slayed it. Some gristle, maybe?
It seems to be getting larger, doesnt it?
Some, yes. Looks almost like a snout, doesnt it?
6
Writing Challenge
Selections
We used to play this game when I was younger, with clouds. Theres a snout, and theres
two eyes, and if you look down theres some pointy bits that look like
Teeth. They look like teeth to me.
I think youre right. Doesnt Lady Persimmon have a sister?
Yes, she does. Lady Kabbage. Has a limp, Im afraid.
I heard it was just a twisted ankle. And that they gave her a poultice.
Very possible.
Shall we go and see how the sisters are getting on then?
I think so, yes. After all, weve slayed this dragon once already, and it was a bloody
diffcult job too. We deserve some rest.
Its steaming again.
I see that.
Leftover gasses, I suppose.
Im sure. Help you to your horse?
Thanks. Thats kind of you. No, no. Leave the jousting pole. Its starting to smolder
anyway.
Do you think King Abernathy will reward us?
Right now Im rather hoping he never knows we were here.
I see what you mean. I suppose that means the ale and wenches and cheering is out.
I think theres a lot to be said for simply living to see another day.
Too true. I think my armors giving me a rash.
Maybe Lady Persimmon has a poultice for it.
Inukshuk
By A.M. Stickel
Now that our last dog has been eaten, what do you plan to do, Eldest Daughters
Husband?
Shhh! Father of My Beloved, I think I hear One Who Walks Tall On White Paws.
I think you hear our teeth chattering and our stomachs growling, Tinuka Blue Eyes.
Again, I respectfully request silence, My Father.
It is best to be food for a White Paws, which may in turn feed our village. Sadly, I think
our end will not be so useful, Tinuka. Your blue eyes have brought us the bad luck I always knew
they would.
Your dark eyes have not done their job as well as they might, My Father. The inukshuk
you thought you saw pointing the way to the sealing grounds has stranded us on rotten ice.
I swear, Tinuka, that though I only glimpsed the inukshuk briefy, it seemed familiar. The
evil magic of the Snow Witch, drawn by your eyes, covered my old stone friend.
An imaginary pile of rocks cannot be a friend, any more than a blizzard can be a witchs
work, Old One. Life is life. Death is death. And thats it. No magic!
I think I set those stones myself when I was your age, Tinuka. The long gray one that
became the arms was the most beautiful I had ever found. It was hard to make it part of the
inukshuk, a beacon for travelers in our North. I wanted to keep it for my frst child, your wife.
7
Writing Challenge
Selections
Maybe my reluctance, and not your blue eyes, put a curse on the inukshuk...
Please, let us not continue, My Father. Something comes that is neither man nor beast.
Look! It is rock, but walks on water. Ready your spear. We must die with honor.
Hello, Old Friend. I see youve far outgrown the arms I almost kept at home, and have
come to make a believer out of Tinuka Blue Eyes Tinuka, Tinuka, Son, get up off the ice...
* * *
Father, what happened? Its so dark, and I cant stop rolling around. Ouch! Where are we?
Is the monster gone?
We are in the belly of the inukshuk, Tinuka. My friend fed well on your dreams and is
taking us home to the village. We have become part of the magic of the North.
Help, Father, Im falling into white coldness.
Catch me, Tinuka; here come my old bones to join you!
Dont worry, I have you, Father. I hurt all over, but how wonderful to be alive. Theres our
village below us. The inukshuk has vanished.
We may be nothing but inukshuk droppings in the snow at present, but tonight we
celebrate as men again, Tinuka. We will drum so loudly that the inukshuk can dance too.
I love you, My Father, and I do believe in magic.
Inukshuk arms picked me up, but your arms caught me, Tinuka. Sometimes they can be
one and the same, magic and love, My Son.

Playful Pastime
By Andrew Brittin
You want me to do what? Malic said, taking a few steps back from the hole in the ground.
Cmon! Sirune sat down beside the hole and looked into it curiously. It cant be that
far down, can it? she said with a wide grin, turning her head to look back at Malic. Youre no
fun, you know that? And what could a little adventure do to you? Kill you? she said in a snide
remark. We live in a the middle of no where for gods sake!
Malic sighed, walking back to the hole and leaned over it. How far do you think it goes,
twenty, thirty feet, perhaps?
I say ffty! she replied as she bounced.
The color drained from Malics face. Pardon? Fifty? And you want me to go down
there? Are you absolutely crazy?
Yes?
YaknowI have this sickening feeling that this will lead us into big trouble. If not
with Mum for getting my breeches mud-soaked, then because were going to fnd somesome evil
wicked thing down there that wants to eat us!
Sirune giggled and preformed a back roll, her feet landing where her bottom had just
sat. Like I said. Youre no fun! You read to many of those fantasy things Uncle Richard
writes. Theyre just to scare you. And to think, youre the ten year old, youd think youd be more
mature.
8
Writing Challenge
Selections
Those are from his life experiences! Malic retorted, holding his hands in a frustrated, I
want to choke you manner. Arrg!
She cocked her head, and raised her brow. Awhat did he call that funny thing? The one
that ate all the fsh from the sea? she tried holding back her giggles.
Malic sat, dangling his feet into the hole. It was called a two-headed basperian nymphate
from the Coast of Anguria, two hundred years ago!
She couldnt hold it any longer and burst into laughter and spoke in-between her raving.
ButUncle Richard isonly thirty! she stopped and looked at him. So are you going to go
in?
You change your mood at the drop of a hat and laugh at things I dont fnd funny. Why,
exactly, do I hang around you? he lied down, his feet still dangling off the edge.
Because! Our parents set us up and now were stuck! Muwahaha! she thought for a
moment, resting her chin on the top of her hand. We have the rope. I can just lower you in.
Do you have some disability that doesnt let you concentrate on one subject? It gets quite
annoying. he said as he cloud-gazed. Hmm, a winged beast.
Sirunes eyes narrowed. Now look whos talking, she got up, grabbing his shoulders
and pushing him forward into the hole.
What are youAhh! Malic screamed as he pushed his feet against the slippery walls of
the hole.
He fell, his eyes looking across the ground as he easily stood in the shallow hole. I
dislike you with a passion, he growled.
Sirune put her hands behind her head, promptly pivoted on the heel of her foot, and
walked away towards the dirt path. Perhaps. But now we know which trouble it led to.
Huh?
You said, and I quote: If not with Mum for getting my breeches mud-soaked, then because
were going to fnd some evil wicked thing down there So, she pivoted again, looking at the
tip of his head, you are getting in trouble because of mud-soaked pants. I sincerely hope your
mother is kind with a beating. Sirune teased. One mystery solved!
Malic took a deep breath and lifted himself out of the hole, his body now dripping mud. He
walked over to Sirune, putting a sloppy arm around her and whispered. I never go down alone.
Malic then pounced on her, dragging as much mud over her as possible, both screaming
playfully. Fine, fne you win! You win! Stop already! Ahh! Sirune managed to scoot away from
Malic, and get to her feet. You are evil!
Then were even, good enough for he saw Sirunes face go pale and her mouth drop.
What? What is it! he demanded.
Th-th-that! she pointed towards the hole, Run! Run! Run! She made turn to run off.
Malic peeked over his shoulder, seeing a large clawed hand, come up and out of the hole.
He blinked, and, without any more thought, ran off with Sirune. I told you! I told you this would
happen!
Okay, okay, I change that around. Uncle Richard is a smart man and we get both kinds of
trouble!
That is not what I wanted to hear! Malic yelled back. We have to get to Uncle Richard.
Hes the only adventurer in the town.
Exactly what I was thinking! Sirune hunkered lower, trying to run faster, Malic keeping
up as they headed towards town.
9
Survey
The Lamp Post Awards
The Lamp Post Awards
D
eep Magic would be nothing without the authors and artists who vol-
unteer their talents to the e-zine. Throughout the summer, we have
allowed our readers to select the best short stories, artists, and articles from
the frst year of Deep Magic. We are proud to present the winners in this
tight race. There were many excellent selections to choose from, but in the
end, only one from each category could win. So without futher ado, we pres-
ent the 2003 Lamp Post Award winners:
Best Fantasy Short
Skygrave
by Margo Lerwill
(April 2003)
Best Science Fiction Short
What Power In a Word
by Alexander R. Brown
(August 2002)
Best Artist
A Dark Knight
by Jonathan Earl Bowser
(June 2002)
Best Article
Notes About the Sword
by M. Thomas
(November 2002)
10
Fantasy Short
The Queen Is Not Amused by Ken Goldman
The Queen is Not Amused
By Ken Goldman
F
izzbain, favorite fool and jester to the Queen of Hampstead, was not such an imbecile that he
did not recognize trouble when he saw it. Tiny Elisabetta missed her pirouette during the dif-
fcult third movement of her performance of Le Triomphe de l Amour. She landed painfully upon
her ankle, and Fizzbain heard the snap of the prima ballerinas delicate bone even from where he
sat at Queen Drucillas feet. The young dancer had displayed obvious fatigue after a strenuous
Port de Bras, and the radiant smile she had worn throughout the frst two movements disinte-
grated into a twisted grimace of pain during the third.
Still the diminutive ballerina danced even as her ankle swelled and grew purple,
reconstructing her lost smile for the beneft of the Queen and her court through eyes that had
welled with tears.
Fizzbains heart wrenched at the sight. He wondered at the admixture of pain and horror
through which the beautiful young girl had conceived those salty tears. The Fool dared not steal
a glance at his Queen, beneath whose throne he sat cross-legged on the silken foor cushion
like a parti-striped crab. But he knew well the countenance
royalty wore when displeased. There was not a living soul in
the English provinces who could not read displeasure on that
withered face.
The Queen raised her arm, and the music abruptly
ceased. Alone in the center of the royal court the ballerina
stood, dwarfed by the vast hall and seeming to shrink as she
remained fxed in place, fearful that even slight movement
might incur Her Majestys further displeasure. No courtier
dared applaud, no guest uttered a sound, and the stillness of
the palace rivaled that of a graveyard. The young dancer risked
a dutiful curtsy in the cold silence, but she could not hide the
lightning bolts of pain coursing through her body.
For a feeting moment Fizzbain considered leaping to his feet and frolicking through the
crowd to make light of the moment, in the hope that this might diminish the Queens anger
and tilt the scales back in the poor damsels favor. Such delusions of heroism were, after all,
permissible even for a fool, as was the delusion that the girl might love him in return. But the
uneasy silence surrounding him convinced the jester that such bravado was not the wisest course
of action for a man who intended to wear his head on his shoulders at dawns light. He might
have even cried, but tears that seemed so out of place in the ballerinas eyes hardly beft a clown.
Nor did his love for the beautiful dancer beft the fool and, like his tears, this too the jester
kept to himself.
Rise, foolish girl! Drucilla spoke in a voice that betrayed little of the anger written on her
face, for the many years of her reign had taught her that in all matters public, decorum was the
frst rule of royalty. Although the redness of her brow belied that belief, she spoke in a manner
that suggested ice more than fre.
Your curtsy is an embarrassment to our guests, she added, while leaning forward on her
No courtier
dared applaud,
no guest uttered
a sound, and the
stillness of the
palace rivaled that
of a graveyard.
continued on page 34
11
Featured Artist
Peter Kudriashov
Featured Artist
Peter Kudriashov
Age: 35
Residence: Saint Petersburg, Russia
Marital Status: Married
Children: Son
Hobbies: Music, auto model collecting, travel when possible, etc.
Personal Quote: Everything that happens, happens for the best
Favorite Book or Author: Strugatskiy brothers, A Snail on a
Slope
Started Painting In: I started painting when I was 10-12 years
old. I started doing illustrations for fantasy and science fction in
approximately 1990.
Artist Most Inspired By: Jim Burns, Michael Whelan, Keith
Parkinson.
Mediums You
Work In: Computer
graphics. Oil, water-color, tempera.
Educational/Training Background:
Schools Attended: Youth art school, art college,
Muhinas Academy of Art and Design
Other Training: My life.
Where Your Work Has Been Published or
Displayed: Fantasy and science fction books by
many large Russian publishers.
Where Someone Can Buy Your Art or
Contact You Professionally: peter@d-inter.ru
or kpi@rambler.ru
Website URL: www.peter-gallery.narod.ru and
www.d-inter.ru/peter
Q: How did you come to be an artist?
A: I have been painting since I remember myself.
When I was young, I liked fairytales. I can hardly
imagine what else could I become other than an
artist. It must be my destiny. I am not a fatalist,
but it seems to me, sometimes, that some events
happen as if without my participation. In reality,
nothing has changed, I still paint and still like
colorful stories.
12
Featured Artist
Peter Kudriashov
Q: How would you describe your work?
A: I wish my work showed the romanticism
and mystery of the books the illustrations
are made for. I try to show their mystery and
magic even in realistic things, though only
the audience can evaluate how well I can do
that.
Q: Where do you fnd your inspiration?
A: Many sources. Literature, art, movies. But
mostly music. I enjoy listening to the World
music and ethnic music. This inspires me
the most for my fantasies. This is similar to
meditation.
Q: What inspired this cover? (Tell us its
story)
A: It was an order for illustrations for a book
Exiles. When I read the text, I wanted to
create an illustration that would display the
romanticism of the book rather than follow
the precise story. It often happens that there
are many roads heading for the goal, but not
every road reaches it. The publisher liked
this illustration. The cover was published.
Q: What do you consider your
infuences?
A: I never specifcally thought about it. I
dont have a clue as to what infuence I can
put on something or someone. The only goal I strive for is for someone else besides me to like my
work. I try to avoid anger, violence and any other negative idea in my paintings.
Q: What has been your greatest success in your artistic career?
A: I was most happy when the frst book with my illustrations was published. Emotionally, this
was my best success. Maybe because it was the fst time, and it was new.
Q: What trends are you seeing in the Sci-Fi/Fantasy genre?
A: On one hand, it seems to me, that science fction and fantasy become more and more diverse,
and maybe more literary, if such comparison is appropriate. Peoples concept of life, art and
literature is changing. Social and ethnic standards are changing as well. New themes and
situations occur, which we had never imagined before. All these factors affect science fction/
fantasy genre in any representation. At the same time, technological progress also takes place. It
effects the peoples concepts of the future machinery. Even in the illustrational art theres more
and more of the computer graphics. However, what remains unchanged? If the literature is good,
it remains good, if the painting is good, it will remain good.
13
Article
Notes on Two Types of Writers (part 2) by M. Thomas
Notes on Two Types of Writers,
In Case You Are One of Them
(part 2)
By M. Thomas
Sometimes the delete key is your greatest friend.
--Steve Martin, Writing is Easy!
R
omar drew his blade, and stared into the eyes of his nemesis. Then he feinted to the left,
throwing his tartan blanket at Amadogwa instead. The dread warlord, tangled in the cloth,
fell into the pit of fre that had opened up under his feet.
More on this later.
For those of you who may have missed the frst article, heres a recap:
I have come to the belief that there are two primary types of fantasy writers. Though
there are a thousand combinations, ultimately most fantasy writers can honestly say they may
at least lean more toward one category than the other. The frst of these is the writer who
chooses fantasy as their genre. The second of these is the fantasy buff who chooses writing as
their creative outlet. Both have their faws, but both deserve recognition, and some (hopefully)
helpful analysis. Last month I shattered the narrative pride of the writers who choose fantasy.
This month, were working with fantasy buffs who choose writing.
Fantasy Buffs Who Choose Writing
You might be a writer who:
Knows the correct order of Robert Jordans books.
Can speak at length on the traditional, mythological characteristics of fantasy species
like elves and dwarves, as well as discuss how fantasy literature and media has
distorted or changed their perception in current culture. Sometimes you do this as a
party trick.
Cant spell antidisestablishmentarianism out loud like the writers can, and dont
need to because you can write a heck of a better sword-fght scene than anyone who
worries about that kind of nonsense.
Fantasy buffs who choose writing are sometimes those who have, at some point in their
lives, had a conversation that went something like this:
You cant capture me with your Elvin Assassins. I have Peregrines Protection
Spell on.
No, you only said you wanted to buy Peregrines Protection Spell. You never gave
up any points to cast it.
continued on next page
14
Article
Yes, I did. It was when your mom made you go pick up your socks.
Fantasy buffs who choose writing sometimes suffer from a lack of the same thing that
writers who choose fantasy over-indulge in. That is, attention to language and structure. Their
medium is worlds and characters rather than language, and there theyve got one up on the
others. Because, theyve played the roles. They know those characters inside out, because theyve
been those characters. Where the writer may make the character an extension of themselves, the
Fantasy buff has made themselves part of the character.
And yet, therein lies the problem. A story is no good with just a character study. And,
except for Benjamin Rosenbaums Other Cities series, Ive never seen a good world-building
exercise work as a story. (And even his werent meant as stories.) World-building and character
studies do not a story make.
Fantasy buffs who choose writing sometimes forget other important details as well.
They sometimes are nave to--or ignore--grammatical conventions, trusting some editor to
know exactly what they mean when they say, And then brave Romar raised his sword and
kilt him. At which point the editor wonders whether kilt them refers to death by brightly
patterned wool. They will begin a story with an excess of adjectives, such as, Romar drew his
long, silvery, glistening blade, and stared into the deep, black, devious eyes of his evil, wicked,
cunning nemesis. Author Caro Clark nicknames this Furry Dice in her article, Beginners
Four Faults. She says, Adjectives, adverbs and prepositions are furry dice hanging from a cars
mirror. They dont do anything for the cars performance, they simply clutter the place.
As a writer and editor, I sometimes see fantasy based on role-playing or fan-fc that just
doesnt work. Either because the author doesnt delve deeply enough into the adversity, or
because of a lack of grammatical know-how. But then again, Ive been a beginning writerwhen
I started we didnt have the online resources we do todayand I know how it is. (And no, there
werent dinosaurs wandering about back then, thank you very much.)
What Fantasy buffs who choose writing have is a multitude of characters and worlds that
are bizarre and strange and wonderful. They have worlds that are all new, or refect somehow
our own world in a subtle sort of mystical parallelism.
What they often need is an understanding of less-is-more. Though the desire may be
to bring to the reader all they see in their imagination, they must learn to trust their readers
imagination more. They often need to understand, as do the writers who choose fantasy, what
Heather Grove calls lesson number 3 in 7 Lessons Writers Dont Want to Learn.
Like many other things, writing breaks down into skill and talent. You may have some
natural talent (or maybe not), but that doesnt mean that you have the skill yet (and if you
dont have the talent, that doesnt mean you cant develop the skill). Skill takes time and effort
to develop. It involves developing an understanding of everything from proper grammar and
spelling to pacing and metaphor.
Fantasy buffs who choose writing must do away with the desire to build and build and
build until characters and worlds collapse under the weight of their own detail. They must learn
simplicity, and to trust the reader. If you read my frst article, you might just recognize those
ideals. In the end, the two groups are not so different after all.
15
Article
Finding Simplicity
Its as diffcult for the fantasy buffs as it is for the writers who choose fantasy. Nobody
likes to have to murder their darlings, when writing. Yet its often the only way to rescue an
over-burdened piece of writing. Case in point: these articles. They were originally one loooong
article. Editor Jeff Wheeler suggested that I might lose my audience. So I split them into two,
and took out a lot of clever witticisms. Trust me, you dont know what youre missing. But in the
interest of getting the point across, I took a large pair of electronic shears to the original article,
and came up with these two, which are more focused and easily digestible in a single sitting,
one would hope. In the interest of your fction writing, and simplicity, there is a very simple
equation:
C + A = P
Character, plus adversity, equals plot. In the frst article, you might have tried the
exercise wherein you narrowed down your character description to 10 words, and the characters
adversity to 20 words, both complete sentences. For this article, your challenge is to create a plot
diagram. You remember these. Your language arts teacher tortured you with them in school.
So, draw the funny triangle.
A B C D
In section A, you must describe the genesis of the story in 50 words or less. Consider the
most important aspects. Who is the main character, and what event occurs to change their life?
Ill use Romar.
A. Romar is the kings champion. He hates this role, because all his defning
champion moments have been due to complete luck. He feels he is masquerading
as a hero. He is sent to fght the evil usurper, Amadogwa. He is afraid he will fail,
and be unmasked.
In section B, you must describe the events that lead to the climax. This means, you must
already have the climax in mind.
B. After several humiliating defeats, in which Romar comes to his moment of
darkest self-doubt, he is spurred on by the blind admiration of his young squire,
Geoffrey, who adores him, and Lady Persimmon, who believes he is destined to be a
hero. He confronts Amadogwa.
In section C, you must describe the climax. It must be the turning point for the
character, where all their personal problems are shunted aside in favor of--not fame, not glory-
-accomplishing a goal. They lose their masks, their arrogance, and their self-doubt here. They
learn humility, and conquer in spite of themselves.
16
Article
C. Romar and Amadogwa battle on the edge of a fery pit. Romar loses his sword in
a foolish under-estimation of his enemy. He must then use his wits to triumph. He
tangles Amadogwa in his kilt, sending the evil one to his well-deserved death.
In section D, you get to throw your hero a party. You also have some time to set up the
next book, or just let Romar return triumphant, with a new understanding of his short-comings,
as well as his talents. There may also be sex. Thats up to you, Romar, and Lady Persimmon,
although I imagine the lady will have the last word on it, as they often do. Dutiful squire
Geoffrey is on his own, and really too young to be engaging in things like that.
D. Romar returns, exhausted, to his king. He receives his just praise and reward,
then retires to a nice manor with Persimmon to live an easy life and do some nice
things for his serfs. He sends Geoffrey off to be trained by real heroes, with glowing
recommendations.
Simplicity. If you cant map your story like this, its got fuzzy edges and may need some re-
working.
Trusting Your Reader
I can imagine the dry mapping above, and the exercises from the previous article, have
got a few people chomping at the bit. It hardly refects the myriad levels of your story. And it
shouldnt. Thats just the skeleton. Now we get to the writing. Yes, the desire and instinct to fll
in the readers imagination remains the same for both types. Writers who choose fantasy want
to fll it in with meaningful prose. Fantasy buffs want to fll it in with description. The reader
needs neither, unless it is well-considered, and well-placed. Therefore, choose a piece of writing
where you have outdone yourself. Choose a description that Peter Jackson might drool over.
Now the process.
1.Take out all the adjectives and adverbs. I know its hard, but you can do it.
2.Take out any saidisms. Any dialogue tag that says anything other than said.
Now the revision.
1.Look at what you have left. Check your spelling and sentence structure. Butt
how important can spelling bee? Its knot important when I right, and their not
gong to sea the deference any whey, is ALL SPELLED CORRECTLY.
2.You may add back in one adjective. Make it a good one. Make it count.
3.You may not put back in any saidisms. Repeat after me: saidisms are evil,
until I am a best-selling author. If you dont believe me, go back and read Said
Bookisms, she Growled, by Margo Lerwill, in the May edition of Deep Magic.
In summation, Ill leave you with this from Robert Jordans article Put Up, or Shut Up:
just because you have a story inside you, doesnt mean you can write it, any more than
17
Article
having a gallstone means you can pass it. I no longer believe that everybody can write. Its not
that easy.
It really isnt. If youre a lover of words, you have to learn when to cut them out. If youre
a lover of fantasy with aspirations of writing, you have to learn about the writing parts too.
Until then, we are all novices struggling toward the same goal: writing good fantasy stories that
carry a readers imagination with them. We can make it, if we keep writing.
And heres the end of Romars tale
Romar went to help his squire rise.
What happened? Geoffrey asked.
The dread warlord is dead, Romar said, fngering a tattered remnant of plaid
cloth. I kilt him.
The End
Robert Jordan - Tips on Writing
Heather Groves 7 Lessons
Benjamin Rosenbaums Other Cities (search in archive)
18
SciFi Short
The Bear Hunt by Ian Morrison
The Bear Hunt
By Ian Morrison
M
r. Simms, can you tell us exactly what was stolen?
Of course. Ive got it all written down right here. He picked up a grimy yellow pad
from the workbench. Fumbling with drugstore glasses, he began to read. A needle-nose pliers,
four-ounce spool of silver solder, six brazing rods, twelve-inch adjustable wrench, ball peen
hammer, three screwdrivers, he paused, looking up, and my welding rig.
Welding rig?
Yes, it was chained on a cart. Both tanks were full, acetylene and oxygen, a Victor Pro set
with cutting torch and National gauges, never given me a bit...
You keep this stuff all locked up?
Ray Simms measured the deputies carefully. They were city cops despite being Ayacama
Countys fnest. Away from sidewalks they might as well be in a foreign land.
I dont lock anything, never have, and been living here my whole life. Now you tell me
how that welding rig got out of here.
The two deputies looked uncomfortable and there was
the slightest shuffing of feet.
Well, I reckon someone walked right in, wheeled
it over to a truck, and drove off. It was the younger of the
two. He was tall, blond, and taking great pains to be polite.
Nobody drives back in here without me knowing
it. Ever try to wheel a welding cart over terrain like that?
He pointed out the barn door to the uneven ground that
stretched away to the deputys patrol car. He winced,
lowering his arm.
What about neighbors?
Ray could see that the older man was trying to fnish a list of questions.
Well, there arent any close by and I know them all. Besides, nothings ever been taken
before. It sounded lame and he was aware that he was wasting everyones time. They were
looking at him as if he was senile.
Mr. Simms, if someone tries to sell this stuff, theres a good chance we can get it back,
especially the welding rig. Thats a big item.
He wasnt surprised when after a short, unenthusiastic search, they drove off. He walked
back toward the house, trying to ignore the pain in his left shoulder. Nearing the front steps, he
moved into the mottled shade of an oak. He loved the space under the huge tree, like being under
a giant birds wing.
Inside the house, he started to tell Emma of his encounter with the sheriff s deputies and
how it wasnt losing the tools that hurt so much, but the thought that someone would take them
out of his barn. He stopped when he saw she was deep into a stack of mail order catalogs. She
was trying to read again, and he decided not to bother her.
He was still working it over in his mind the next morning when Emma interrupted his
thoughts.
There they were,
lying on their sides, as
spotless as the day he
had brought them back
from the salvage yard.
19
Article
To Outline, Or Not to Outline? by Kristen Britain
To Outline, or Not to Outline?
By Kristen Britain
T
he question is asked frequently, but there is no right or wrong answer. It falls, really, to indi-
vidual preference. What works for you? I have written novels with and without outlines, and
from experience, Ive discovered my (current) preference.
My frst novel, Green Rider, was written without an outline. I had a basic concept of what
the book was going to be about: a girl runs away from school, encounters a dying messenger on
the road who pleads with her to carry his message to the king, and she gets into lots of trouble
along the way. That was it, my idea of an outline, and writing the book proved adventurous not
only for my protagonist, but for me as well. We never knew what wed encounter around the next
bend.
I worked out a lot of the story details as I walked, biked, and hiked the trails on the Maine
island where I live. Sometimes the natural terrain itself offered possibilities and ideas: I could
see my protagonist riding her horse down the rustic roadways I rode my bicycle on, or I could see
her trying to hide in the dense forest. I also think there is something hypnotic about repetitive
motion that allows one to sink into story space, the place where the subconscious and conscious
merge and generate ideas. It helped me to decide whats next for my protagonist and her trusty
steed.
In addition, I kept, and still keep, a story journal in which I can talk to myself and work
out plot problems or jot down ideas. If I wanted to work out the chronological events of a scene, I
could do so in my journal. In a sense, I was creating mini-outlines along the way.
Not having an over-arching outline for Green Rider worked for that particular book. The
plot is fairly linear, and I had all the time in the world to fddle with it since I was not writing
under contract. I had no editor, publisher, or audience waiting on me to produce it; I was writing
it for me alone. Eventually, I did shop the fnished manuscript around to various publishers,
who rejected it, and an agent who kindly pointed out to me that some important plot points were
missing. I agreed, and embarked on a new revision, and this time the manuscript sold. Would an
outline have saved me the trouble of rejections and revision by getting everything right the frst
time? I honestly dont know.
When it came to writing the sequel, I could not afford the luxury of time to create the book
in the same organic fashion in which I wrote Green Rider. Things had changed. Not only was the
structure of the sequel going to be more complex, but my personal life had become more complex
as well: I took on more responsibilities at my day job, I was now writing under the pressure of a
contract with all those expectations weighing heavily on me, and the fates toy mercilessly with
ones personal life without regard to ones need to write a book! There was no time for lengthy,
peaceful woodland walks to work out the plot, and it was clear I needed the security of an outline
to create this novel.
Developing the outline took several months, and it turned out rather detailed. It was like
writing a small version of the novel, but as an expository narrative that summarized the story
and hinted at tone, and provided only snippets of dialog. It formed the skeleton of the story with
some of the tendons and muscles to hold it together, but lacking the overall fesh.
For me, the outline was a life saver. I didnt hit roadblocks when plot threads intersected,
20
Article
To Outline, Or Not to Outline? by Kristen Britain
I didnt go off on accidental side trips and get lost, all because I had a road map to guide me. Did
it stilt the creative process? No. In fact I believe it enhanced the experience. I found I could focus
more on the actual writing and story elements since I didnt have to wrangle over structural
issues. The process was easier and more enjoyable with the outline, and those little surprises
that make writing such a joy still managed to pop up and added tremendously to the story.
Currently, I am writing the third installment of the Green Rider series, and I am once
again using an outline, but this one is not nearly as detailed as the one I created for the sequel.
At times I wish it were, but its too soon to judge the outlines effectiveness. Check with me when
the book is done!
Remember always to choose the route that works best for you, and not to worry about how
others get the job done. Make the process enjoyable for yourself. Otherwise, why go to all the
effort?
The End
Click the thumbnails below to purchase Kristen Britains novels,
The Green Rider and First Riders Call.
21
Interview
Kristen Britain
Kristen Britain
Interview
Residence: Maine
Children: Two cats, one dog, all boys.
Hobbies: Guitar playing, reading, walking, paddling, hiking, drawing.
Personal Quote: Do what works.
Favorite Book or Author: THE LORD OF THE RINGS, by J.R.R. Tolkien
Professional and Educational Information: BS, Communications with writing minor, Ithaca
College, Ithaca, NY. 14.5 years as a national park ranger.
First Time You Tried To Get Something Published: I was a teenager. Published a horse
cartoon book when I was 14.
Authors Most Inspired By: J.R.R. Tolkien, Anne McCaffrey, Lloyd Alexander
Published works: GREEN RIDER, DAW Books, 1998; FIRST RIDERS CALL, DAW Books,
2003; Avalonia in OUT OF AVALON, edited by Jennifer Roberson, Roc 2001; Linked, on the
Lake of Souls in DAW BOOKS 30TH ANNIVERSARY: FANTASY, edited by Betsy Wollheim and
Shiela Gilbert, DAW Books, 2002.
Website URL: www.kristenbritain.com
Q: Tell us the story of how your frst book was published
A: Its a really long story, but Ill try to summarize. It took less than a year to write the frst draft
of GREEN RIDER, then I fddled with it some, and tried to learn about publishing. I sent it
unsolicited to a few publishers, and received positive rejections. I even sent it to an agent who
wrote a letter back saying it was promising, maybe even publishable, but lacked some elements.
I reread the manuscript, agreed with his assessment, and embarked on revisions. An author I
know agreed to look it over, as well, and made some more suggestions. Eventually, the revised
manuscript was all set to go. My author friend sent his agent a letter about me and my book, and
a colleague of the agent called me the next day to ask if she could see it. Of course she could see
it! In a matter of weeks she agreed to represent it, and within a couple months, two publishers
expressed interest in the book, including DAW, which eventually purchased the rights to publish
it. My agent and I thought that DAW was the best home for the book. Eventually, rights were
also sold to publishers in the UK, Germany, and Poland, which is pretty cool. To give readers an
idea of the time span it took for all this to occur, I started writing the book in the fall of 1992.
In 1993, I started revising a little and shopped it around. In 1995, my author friend looked it
over, and I embarked on the new revision. The book sold to DAW in 1996, and the frst hardcover
edition came out almost exactly two years later. Publishing takes time.
Q: How has the internet affected your relationship with readers and/or publishers?
A: I can only guess that writers were a lot more anonymous before the internet. Now, readers
have a lot more access to information and reviews and online booksellers via the internet, and
probably fnd it much easier to zip off an email to authors rather than the old fashioned way
of writing on actual paper and sending the letter via snail mail. I communicate with readers
and publishers mostly by email, so in that way its quite handy. It also gives me a voice at my
22
Interview
Kristen Britain
own website, where anyone can take a look and see whats new, see what books Ive written and
sample the chapters Ive posted there, etc.
Q: Do you have any favorite characters?
A: If you are speaking in regards to my own writing, I like all my characters and have fun with
them, though I have a special place in my heart for the villains.
Q: What infuences have helped you become the writer you are?
A: Obstinance. I never gave up, and I think thats true with many writers. Im not sure that falls
under the category of infuences though. I had some terrifc English and writing teachers who
encouraged me to keep writing, so I guess I would term them positive infuences.

Q: What have you been reading lately?
A: Heh, I just picked up the latest Harry Potter at a midnight launch party, but it will have to sit
in my To Be Read Pile, along with several Laurel K. Hamilton Anita Blake novels, and Mindy
Klaskys latest. I just fnished reading THE MAN WHO LISTENS TO HORSES and SHY BOY
by Monty Roberts.

Q: How much of your time do devote to writing?
A: Ive never really kept track. I know that when I was working full time at the day job, all
available time went to writing, if I wasnt sleeping, eating, or mowing the lawn that is.

Q: When you have a time where you dont think you can write another word, what is it
that gets you going again?
A: Obstinance. See above ;-)

Q: Many fantasy novels these days have strong adult themes (violence, language,
sexual situations). Your work has been described as being tame in comparison. What is
your opinion on this issue and how does it affect your writing?
A: The fantasy literature I grew up loving did not require strong adult themes to tell a great
story. It awakened my sense of wonder, not my sense of horror. The traditional archetypes and
conficts of good vs. evil were empowering, and the evil was well drawn enough not to require
explicit, hard-edged adult themes. Im not knocking hard fantasy. There are authors who
handle adult themes vividly and well, and its out there for those who want it. In my own case,
while I read some occasional hard fantasy, Id rather not have my sense of horror awakened
too oftentheres enough horror in the real world. While no writer can compete with the
truly awful things real people do to one another, Id rather not be reminded of it. I prefer to be
enchanted, and I think this is conveyed in my work. That is not to say that there is not a hard
edge that occurs in my books, but its not the focusthe story and characters are. In addition, the
tone was set with the frst book in the series, and suddenly intensifying those themes could be
perceived as inconsistent. However, if the story demands it in a scene or two? It will be done, and
the readers will not be numb to it since I havent bludgeoned them with it up to this point. It will
have more impact. Actually, Ive received a lot of thank yous from readers relieved not to fnd
the frst book drenched in gore or swearing or sex. That doesnt mean I wont cross the line if the
story requires it. And its all about story after all.
23
Book Reviews
Page Turners: Deep Magic Looks at Books
Editors Choice: Classic Fantasy
The Sword of Shannara
By Terry Brooks
T
here is a cult of originality in our culture. It seems
that unless youre the frst to come up with an idea,
its not an idea worth having. Authors are constantly
being told that their ideas are not original. W.H. Auden
had a wonderful to reply to thiswhat authors should
be aiming for is authenticity and not originality. Indeed,
originality was, until about 200 years ago, seen as a
weakness of a work. If you did not borrow your ideas
from a time-tested tradition, what good were your ideas,
other than a fash in the pan? In our post-Romantics
culture where the author is idolized to the point of deity,
however, originality is the catch-all.
One of the complaints about high, epic fantasya
complaint that has taken on almost mantra-like status
is that it is not original, that it tends to be the same basic
ideas and plot devices expressed over and over again.
What we need, we are told, is a highly original story each
time out.
But if this is actually what the market desires, then
why is the history of modern epic fantasy the history of
recurring ideas, themes, and plots told again and again?
The answer is one that I might get into in another article,
but for now, lets look at the evidence by looking at what
many consider to be the book that started the whole epic
fantasy sub-genre. No, not The Lord of the Ringsthat
started the modern fantasy genrebut Terry Brooks The
Sword of Shannara.
Until it was published in 1977, epic fantasy as
a sub-genre didnt really exist. Yes, there were some
epic fantasies being written, but not enough to call it
a sub-genre. Then Del Rey came out with a book that
was remarkably like The Lord of the Rings, written by
newcomer Terry Brooks. It sold like crazy, making the
New York Times bestseller list, and a sub-genre was
born.
The Sword of Shannara tells the tale of half-elven,
half-human Shea Ohmsford who is the only remaining
heir of Elf legend Jerle Shannara, who defeated the
dread Warlock Lord many years prior with the talismanic
Sword of Shannara. The sword, which can be wielded
only by an heir of Shannara, now rests in the Druids
Page Turners
Deep Magic Looks at Books
O
ne request we frequently get here in the offces of Deep Magic is for recommendations on what else to read. I
mean, lets face it, even when we provide you, our faithful readers, with an issue of nearly 200 pages of qual-
ity high fantasy and science fction, thats still not enough. We would have to produce a weekly e-zine in order to
meet many of our readers needs for quality fction.
To help meet that need, Deep Magic is proud to present a monthly book review column in which well tanta-
lize you with discussions of quality (and sometimes not-so-quality) books.
To help you make informed decisions on what to read, weve included with our reviews two handy features.
First, each review will rate the book or series on a scale of one to fve. In keeping with our Lamp Post Awards,
weve chosen the lamp post as our rating icon. Five lamp posts means a book that every library should have. One
lamp post means a book whose sole merit is it makes a good shimmy to keep your desk level. Second, in keeping
with our motto of safe places for minds to wander, at the end of each review, we are including a brief synopsis of
areas that some might fnd objectionable. These two features inter-relate only insofar as too much objectionable
material quite often refects a book that is more concerned with sensationalism than with telling a good story.
So, enough of this, lets dive into the books!
24
Book Reviews
Keep of Paranor, where the gnomes of the Warlock Lord
are preventing any from taking it.
Shea, however, is unaware of all this, living his life
in peaceful Shady Vale, until the mysterious Allanon
appears to reveal to Shea what his true heritage is.
After Allanon disappears, Shea and his step-brother
Flick fee Shady Vale when a Skull Bearer, one of the
Warlock Lords minions, appears. They eventually make
their way to the dwarf refuge city of Culhaven where
they meet up with Allanon and form a fellowship with
representatives from the friendly races of their world to
attempt to recapture the Sword of Shannara.
If the story so far sounds familiar, it should: its
remarkably similar to the frst two books of The Lord of
the Rings. Brooks telling is almost a clone of Tolkiens,
leading some critics to coin the term Tolclone of which
Brooks is often held up as exemplar.
Confession time here: I am a great admirer of J.R.R.
Tolkiens work, and so I have always found it hard work
to get through the frst half of The Sword of Shannara
where Brooks mimics Tolkiens story line so closely. If
the story had ended at the half-way point, then the
naysayers would have plenty to complain about, but it is
the second half of this lengthy (about 700 pages) tale that
redeems the frst half. For it is in the second half that
Brooks breaks away from the slavish copying of Tolkien
and instead begins to take on a voice of his own. So as
not to spoil any of the book, I wont go into detail about
the plot, but the book reads as if Brooks, once he pushed
aside the ghost of Tolkien, was able to breathe more
freely and create a story that is still an homage to the
master of fantasy while at the same time being a story
told in Brooks own voice and with his own ideas.
If Brooks were to rewrite this book, Id tell him to not
worry about the second half, but re-do the frst half, for
its slavish following to Tolkien drags it down, but once
he breaks loose, it becomes a work that many can and
have enjoyed.
Possible objectionable material: mild violence.
(Review by Matthew Winslow)
Book Review: Fantasy
Lord of Snow and Shadows
By Sarah Ash
G
avril Andar, a poor painter in the southern country
of Smarna, has just landed a great commission:
to paint the betrothal portrait of the Altessa Astasia
Orlova from the nearby country of Muscobar. Gavril,
unfortunately, falls in love with the altessa whilst
painting her portrait, but that brief affair is cut short
when the altessas family discovers what is happening.
Thrown out onto his luck, Gavril fears that he will never
be able to realize his love with the altessa.
Then one night, a host of barbarians from the far
north show up on Gavrils doorstep, claiming he is
their Drakhaon, the leader of their people since their
previous leaderthe man whom Gavril never knew as
his fatherhas been killed. The proof of Gavrils heritage
is in his blood, for in the blood of the Drakhaons resides
the Drakhaol, a dragon-like creature that at times of
great distress takes over the Drakhaon. The only way
for Gavril to keep the Drakhaol from taking control is for
him to drink the blood of virgin maidens.
Gavril, incredulous and not wanting to live in the
barbaric north, is kidnapped by the barbarians and
spirited back to Azhkendir. There he must learn how to
be a barbarian warlord possessed by a demon, while also
avenging the murder of his father.
Were that not enough, there is also political
intrigue going on both within the court of Azhkendir,
with rival claimants to the throne, as well as abroad,
with neighboring Tielin maneuvering to conquer both
Muscobar and Azhkendir, through regular warfare and
espionage and intrigue.
Lord of Snow and Shadows is an intriguing book,
well written and captivating, blending diverse elements
of Slavic culture (upon which all the cultures are based)
to create a relatively fresh fantasy world. The book is the
frst of a series entitled The Tears of Atramon (referring
to a set of jewels that need to be gathered together before
a single ruler can rule all of the continent of Rossiya), but
25
Book Reviews
the main storyline of the novel is resolved satisfactorily. I
have never read any of Sarah Ashs novels before, but this
captivating read will lead me to look up her other works,
and wait anxiously for the next book in the series.
Possible objectionable material: The subtext of vampirism
may upset some readers. There are also a few scenes of
mildly grotesque imagery.
Book Review: Fantasy
Niamh and the Hermit
By Emily C.A. Snyder
L
et me put all my cards on the table and confess that I
am a strong supporter of the small press movement.
There is a lot of good fction being printed by the large
houses, but lets face it: even their bold and innovative
stuff is quite tame and lacking, following set ideas about
what makes a good book. I often lament that we will
never see something as good, as fresh, or as invigorating
as Narnia or The Lord of the Rings. Instead, what we get
are pale imitations of them.
But the small presses are working to change all that.
Even though they have a bottom line to observe, they are
not corporate behemoths, and so are more willing to take
chances and publish the good stuff. True, theres a lot of
tripe that is coming from fy-by-night presses, but if one
sifts through all of it (or reads a quality book column like
this one!), one can fnd quality fantasy that blows away
the stuff being written by the large houses.
And Im pleased to announce that Arx Publishing has
just published one such novel, Niamh and the Hermit by
Emily C.A. Snyder.
The Princess Niamh, half-mortal and half-fairy, is so
gloriously fair that her beauty drives most men mad. But
the kingdom needs an heir. The hope of the kingdom lies
in the mysterious Hermit, the only one who can endure
Niamhs beauty. The Hermit arrives and it appears as if
he is the kingdoms answer. But an evil count deceives
Niamh and begins to lead her down the road to perdition.
The Hermit, true to his noble nature, sets out to fnd her.
The book traces the events that befall both Niamh and
the Hermit as they set upon their respective quests: she
to fnd herself, he to fnd her.
Written in a style reminiscent of Lord Dunsany and
William Morris, Niamh and the Hermit is a beautiful
fairy tale. As with both of those great fantastic stylists,
it takes a few pages to get into the voice of the novel, but
once there, it fts comfortably. If youre extra sensitive to
the appropriate usage of thee and thou vs. you (I am,
having studied medieval language and literature in grad
school), I recommend you read the appendices frst where
the usage is explained.
The imaginary world of the 12 Kingdoms is also well
realized; although Ms. Snyder focuses more on the telling
of her story than on the description of her world, she has
still created a world that resonates with the reader. It is
vaguely medieval, vaguely renaissance, and thoroughly
enjoyable.
Possibly objectionable material: none.
Book Review: Science Fiction
Memory
By Linda Nagata
I
f a child should ask, What is the world? a
parent might answer, It is a ring-shaped
island of life made by the goddess in defance of
the frozen dark between the stars. On the outer
rim of this ring there is mostly land, and that is
where we live. On the inner rim there is only
ocean
But if a child should ask, What is the silver? the
answer might take many forms.
26
Book Reviews
It is a fog or glowing particles that arises at
night to rebuild the world.
It is a remnant of the worlds creation.
It is the memory of the world.
It is the dreaming mind of the wounded goddess
and you must never go near her! Her dreams will
swallow any player they touch. Do you want to
be swallowed up by the silver? No? Then stay
inside at night. Never wander.
Jubilee is obsessed with the silver. When she was
ten, a silver food rolled into the bedroom she shared
with her brother Jolly. Jolly moved toward it, and was
enveloped in its luminous fog. No one can survive silver.
Once enveloped, a living creature simply disappears.
That was what happened to Jolly.
Silver is a fog that rises at night, sometimes it leaves
what it touches unchanged, but often it alters things.
An ancient city might appear where a forest had stood
the day before. It shapes and reshapes the world, often
bringing the past to the present.
The lives of the people (called players) are also
recycled. Players are reborn again and again. They
cannot remember previous lives, but they retain skills
that lie dormant until the player is reminded of them.
A few years after her brother disappeared, a
mysterious stranger appears out of the silver and
demands to see Jubilees brother. He claims to know
Jolly, but then disappears into the silver again before
Jubilee can ask him about the silver or her brother.
Jubilee then undertakes a quest to discover all she
can about the man who can travel through silver and fnd
her lost brother. As the truth unfolds, Jubilee discovers
she had been faced with the same choices in previous
lives, but would the outcome always be the same?
This book was truly a pleasure to read. It is a very
well-written story that incorporates science-fction with
a twist of eastern philosophy. The world and plot were
original and engaging. The story was compelling and
well-paced. The one element of the story I didnt just
love was the characters. They were likable enough, but
not brilliantly written. I wouldnt be surprised to see
a sequel, because some of the storys loose ends were
unresolved.
No objectionable material.
(Review by Rochelle Buck)
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27
Fantasy Short
The Legend of Thytr by Brendon Taylor
The Legend of Thytr
By Brendon Taylor
S
un-baked hills the color of rust and dried blood huddled around Horseshoe Valley like a mas-
sive dam. The only thing they kept out was the blowing sand, but that was good enough. The
valley had not been chosen for its inhospitable beauty, but for its location. The Coable Desert
stretched within a days ride of the woodland realm of Calhoun, and the valley was the closest
point to the border where any sizable force could gather unnoticed.
At frst, only a handful of ashen soldiers set up camp in the valley. The ashen received
meager reward for the bone-wearing labor they performed. Under the direction of a bald-headed
kymer, they dug a well in the north end of the valley. Most were wise enough to thank the
sorcerer for his guidance and attributed his talents with
fnding a place where water lingered only thirty spans
below ground. The kymer also aided them by drawing fre
from his fngers to mold a ridge of stone around the well,
which kept blowing sand from undoing their labors as fast
as they shoveled. Then, the ashen set up tents, traveled to
the east to fetch wagonloads of frewood, and secured large
stores of food. With camp ready, the shardsmen came.
The ashen could not tell one shardsman from
another, but knew well enough to follow orders when given
and stay out of their way. Legends of the Southland knights,
called assassins by some and worse by others, passed from one Southland town to another. Not
everyone believed all that was said about them, but most agreed that shardsmen lived until their
blood was spilled in battle. They never aged, grew sick, or left the order. Their dark blades, called
blackshards, outmatched every foe and dealt death in the name of the Creators. What most of
the Southland did not know was how soon they would march into battle again.
Hundreds of shardsmen, in uniforms of hard black leather, trained from sunrise until
beyond dark. Even in mid-winter, the Coables heat was oppressive. Most wearied or wilted, but
Thytr enjoyed the long hours and heat. He was eager to work the other shardsmen to weariness
and prove his quality to the eyes that sought leaders among the MohdAthon, or youngers. By
his estimation, his skill with the blackshard had thus far been unmatched by any of the other
younger shardsmen. He knew the handful of ancient DorAthon, the original shardsmen,
watched, appraised, and marked the MohdAthon. Thytr welcomed their eyes.
A trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek as Thytr sparred with another MohdAthon. Jerly
hulked over him like a harpenel tree, but moved like one toolunging and recovering like a
branch on a slow breeze. Thytr slid aside just enough for the blade to miss him. He could see
that Jerly was biting at the bait, thinking himself just missing with each lunge. Thytr could end
it at any time, and any trained eye could see that. He let Jerly attack until his breaths came in
gulps and wheezes. Then, with a controlled sweep that Jerly barely cleared, Thytr set himself
in position and slapped his opponent hard on the face with the fat side of the practice blade. He
chuckled as Jerly fell to his knees.
Thytr wiped the sweat from his cheek and scanned around, surveying the other
Thytr could end it
at any time, and any
trained eye could see
that. He let Jerly attack
until his breaths came
in gulps and wheezes.
28
Interview
Jay Wolpert
Jay Wolpert
Interview
Deep Magics interview with Jay Wolpert, screenwriter of
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN and THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO
DM: Tell us the story of how you came to write the original screenplay for PIRATES OF THE
CARIBBEAN and how it made it into the right hands to be produced. What was the timeline?
Jay: It was a unique situation. I had written two scripts previously. One was in turnaround
thats where a studio pays for script then decides they dont want to do it and the other was
Count of Monte Cristo. I was in Cabo with a friend on a fshing trip and got a call from Disney
who said they were interested in doing a movie version of their theme-park ride. I asked what
the tone they were going after. The answer was kind of an Indiana Jones meets Zorro. I said I
can do that because, you see, Ive never met a sword I didnt like.
The next step was that they sent me a treatment that was a one-page summary of the idea.
It basically said the movie is based on the ride, and it traced a few characters briefyWill,
Elizabeth, Governor, Bad Pirate, Army offcer/traitor character. In screenwriting, you get the
opportunity to pitch an idea without being guaranteed the job. So I had the opportunity to come
to them with a take (the movie, loosely laid out). Some writers do very complete takes, other
writers do loose takes. I wrote mine in about three weeks. And Disney fell in love with the story.
DM: The movie is out right now, so when did this happen? Give us an idea of how long the
process takes.
Jay: They approached me in the Fall of 2000.
DM: What other screenplays have you done?
Jay: My frst was a semi-autobiographical piece called In the Year of the Brat about a summer I
spent in my youth taking care of rich kid. Thats still in turnaround at MGM. Then I did Count
of Monte Cristo the frst one that made it all the way through as a flm. I recently fnished Iron
Bow about William Tell and another one for Disney, a live-action version of The Sword in the
Stone.
DM: Are you going to write the sequel to PIRATES?
Jay: Since they have already signed Rossio and Elliott, I guess the answer is no.
DM: How does a screenplay manuscript evolve from a frst draft to the actual flm? How many
others have input into what stays and what is removed/reworked? How much involvement do you
have in the project as it moves forward?
Jay: When someone typically pays you to write a screenplay, you have a specifc obligation to
write a draft and a set that means you write one draft, then they get four weeks to read and
give comments, then I make the revisions. Done. After the revisions, they have option to request
29
Interview
Jay Wolpert
more workfor more money. So, lets talk about PIRATES. The frst draft had similarities to
what ended up on the screen but there were differences too. Like the movie, it had a nasty
pirate who was frst mate to Jack who mutinies against him and takes Jacks ship and maroons
Jack. Also, like the fnal movie, the pirates werent interested in booty but an icon but in
my draft it wasnt a medallion worn by Elizabeth, it was a legendary Golden Galleon given to
Henry Morgan by other Pirate Captains. Whoever held the galleon was recognized as captain
of captains. There werent any undead skeletons for the crew at all. That fantasy element was
added by Rossio and Elliott after they joined the project.
DM: What are the standard contractual obligations involved in writing screenplays?
Jay: Theres a standard contract, of course. One of the most important elements is an exclusivity
arrangement, which means I cant be writing another script at the same time Im working on
the commissioned one. Ive never had a non-disclosure agreement, so to speak, though Im sure
they have them on movies like the most recent Star Wars installments. Another contractual
term is tied to credit. As a screenwriter, if you receive sole writing credit in the flm then they are
obligated to do certain things. Like production bonuses. The money is also greater in terms of
residuals and you get frst crack at writing the sequels, or the right of frst refusal which means
I have to turn it down before they can shop it elsewhere. But these exceptions are only for scripts
where Im the sole writer.

DM: For our economically motivated readers/writers, what is the typical compensation to the
writer of a screenplay? Obviously someone whos won an Oscar for best screenplay is probably
treated differently.
Jay: Good question. Back in the early 90s minimum wage was around $50,000 for a two-hour
feature. Todays minimums are more in the $60,000-65,000 range, I think. But there are other
wonderful things about being a screenwriter. I mean, its a great job. Youre selling an item that
everyone wants. There is a great hunger for it in the market place, unlike game shows, which I
used to create. Hollywood always needs new material. Another huge beneft is that once you start
doing well in the industry and prove you can satisfy people, you go up pretty quickly in terms
of compensation. For me, things have gone up signifcantly since I wrote PIRATES. The few top
screenwriters of course are making $2 million per script, and that doesnt include residuals. And
the screenwriter gets paid up front! The only one in the process who does. Once you get the job,
you get paid no matter what. Did I mention I love being a screenwriter?

DM: What is your favorite scene from PIRATES? Why?
Jay: Defnitely the fght in the smithy between Will and Jack. My favorite movie in the world
is Scaramouche. It has a seven-minute sword fght scene in it. The fght in the smithy was
defnitely my favorite scene. Im an afcionado of sword fghting scenes.

DM: And what is your favorite line? (regardless of who may have written it)
Jay: I do have a favorite line, and I did not write it actually. It was when Jack and Elizabeth
were marooned together. Jack frantically asks her why she burned all the rum. Her answer is
very logical: its a vile drink that turns civilized men into beasts, the smoke is a thousand feet
high and will be seen by the feet. To which Jack says But why did you burn the rum? Its a
great line!
30
Interview
Jay Wolpert
DM: What infuence did the actors have on the script? Were any lines ad-libbed, modifed based
on their playing the role?
Jay: I dont know for sure. With COUNT, actors had profound infuence on the dialogue. They
are the ones that really have to say the wordswith convictionand keep it congruent with
their characters personalities. Theyll frequently comment during flming, this line is hard to
say or my character just wouldnt say this. I imagine with talent like Johnny Depp and
Geoffrey Rush that if they didnt like the word the it ceased to exist.

DM: You have a gift for character development. Each character in the movie had defned
motivations for their actions (and there was a great deal of subtlety in revealing those
motivations). How did you juggle all these personalities and make them distinct without losing
focus of the main protagonists and antagonist?
Jay: Thats a tough question. You see the character in your mind, get to know the character.
When Disney frst gave me the treatment, Jacks character was a simply a prisoner. I saw in
Jack an older Errol Flynn. Someone a little burned out, a little seedy, doing what it takes to
survive. Writing a character is like putting on a suit. Putting on that costume. You inhabit him,
start to act as he would. This is diffcult to explain. Its like tying a knot. I can tie it, but I dont
always know precisely how I did it. Some characters just ft and you write it like you were born
to be that person. Others are tougher.
Let me give you another example. In COUNT, they asked me if I could make Edmonds
experience in prison a little darker. So I came up with the warden character, got into his
personality and motivations. Hes someone turned on by incarcerating innocent people. He likes
to fail his prisoners on the anniversary of their incarceration. My favorite line from the movie
came from that character: The Warden tells Edmond not to bother calling on God because God is
never in France this time of year.

DM: This has been a great opportunity for us to interview you. What authors have had the
greatest infuence on you and your writing?
Jay: Rafael Sabatini without hesitation. He wrote Scaramouche, Sea Hawk, Captain Blood.
Also Thomas Costain and Frank Yerby. These authors were the source of many of the movies in
the 50s. I didnt love Sir Walter Scotts book as much as I loved the movie Ivanhoe. Same thing
with Count of Monte Cristo. The book was not the inspiration as much because everyone wears a
sword but nobody uses it.
DM: We like swords too.
Jay: I knew there was something I liked about you.
Interviewer: Jeff Wheeler
The End
31
The Geeks Guide to Grammar
Parenthetical Statements in Fiction
The Geeks Guide to Grammar
Parenthetical Statements in Fiction
Parenthetical elements are common in all forms of writing. But there are right, and wrong, ways to use them.
Rule: Parenthetical elements that are closely related to the text should be set off with commas; those
that are more distant to the text should be set off with dashes or parenthesis.
Despite the above rule, however, I will at this time put a pet
peeve to rest. In fction writing, parenthesis should NEVER be used.
Commas or dashes should be used, depending on how that element
relates to the text.
Before going much further, a defnition of a parenthetical
element is in order. Basically, a parenthetical is an aside, a comment
being made that is extra and not necessarily needed. Imagine it as
a by the way, did you know Such an element can be lifted out
of a sentence without ever being missed, but its inclusion provides
valuable detail to the reader. See below for some examples.
If the comment is closely related to the text, it should be set
off with a comma. The warrior, armed with his favorite
sword, rode into the mountains to do battle with the
trolls. As alluded to above, one way to recognize a parenthetical
element is that it can easily be removed from a sentence without
affecting it. Elsa, dressed in the black robes of
mourning, wept at the death of her beloved pet,
Inka the mule.
Sometimes a parenthetical element is more distantly
related to the text. In such a case, use em dashes to set it
apart. The warrior--the same man who defeated
the dragon and saved the village--rode into the
mountains to do battle with the trolls. More
distant parenthetical elements like the one just mentioned
are generally used to put something in context with a
previous event. They have little, if anything, to do with what
is currently happening.
As mentioned earlier, parenthesis can also be used
for distantly-related parenthetical elements. However, The
Geek strongly suggests that you do not use parenthesis in
fction writing. Non-fction and technical writings are more
appropriate places for the use of parenthesis. Occasionally,
frst-person narrative can make use of them, but that should
only be when deemed absolutely necessary. Dashes work just
as well, and they are less disruptive in fction.
Common mistakes:
1. The mistake we most often see is that the
parenthetical element isnt caught and not set
off by commas or dashes. The warrior armed
with his favorite sword set out to
do battle. This can lead to diffcult reading
and confusion.
2. Often, the parenthetical element has
no bearing whatsoever to the story or
sentence. Remove such elements. Misty
hated trudging down Beyers Canyon
identical to the mile long expanse
of Breadcrumb Canyon that the
ancients of Mistys land considered
to be too brown to grow crops
because the cacti at the bottom
always reminded her of ugly fsh.
Ask the Geek
Do you have a grammar question
for The Geek? This is the place
to ask. Simply send an email,
and hell respond. Be prepared,
because your question may be
printed in a future issue. EMAIL
THE GEEK
32
Fantasy Novel
The Rise by Sarah Dobbs
THE RISE
By Sarah Dobbs
PART TWO
ONE
Five seasons later
H
appy Birthday Markooth, Gwyneth sang, a little drunk off the stolen ale. She leaned across
Davvy to plant a big kiss on his mouth. Markooth couldnt help but smile.
Why thank you, Gwyneth.
Ry-anne looked into the small fre they had built
by the lake. Crickets trilled nearby. She warmed her
hands on the fickering orange-red fames, not because of
the night chill, but because Gwyneths actions made her
uncomfortable. At ffteen, Gwyneth shouldnt be kissing.
Then again, she always did what she wanted.
But jealousy was a sin in Glandor, so Ry-anne tried
to push her feelings awayand then Davvy glanced her
way. His feeting half-smile tried to tell her that Gwyneths
firting with Markooth didnt bother him, but he wasnt very
convincing.
So how does it feel to be all grown up and going to work
next morn? Davvy asked.
Markooth rubbed his thumb over the rim of the clay mug he cupped with both hands.
Longish, sunny hair fell over clear eyes and Ry-anne was disturbed to fnd herself watching
the fames dance over his handsome face, causing his golden eyes to fash. She subdued an
overwhelming urge to brush the hair from his cheek.
So it must be strange for you, Ry, Gwyneth said.
Ry-anne braced herself. And hows that?
Well, Gwyneth wobbled backwards accidentally and shot her arms out to steady herself.
Oops. Well I mean, Markooth starts his allocation this coming morn as guard to the Grand
congratulations incidentallyyet you with your little thirteen seasons have not even been
allocated your path. Just seems funny. She knocked back the dregs of ale and nearly fell onto
her back.
Im getting allocated in three morns. Ry-anne took a teensy sip of her own drink and
wincedit tasted just awful. She hated when people brought up their age difference. It reminded
her of when their Immediates had tried to get them separated. And Kynalittle curl-twisting
Kyna. Ry-anne squeezed the memories awaythey were too much for tonight. Though if she had
been alive, she would have been here with them, wouldnt she? Little Kyna.
She screamed till
her throat was raw
and swam violently
out of the dream
before she drowned.
Markooth shook her
she batted him away.
continued from Issue 15
33
SciFi Novel
Procyx Book Three by O.R. Savage
Procyx Book Three
By O.R. Savage
The Holy Man
And The Infdel
Prologue
Dark Foundation
A
human-sized fat, vertical vortex unraveled mere centimeters above the surface of a perni-
cious, slumbering world. The blue, coherent light from its swirling fames had not shone here
for aeons and set a small turbulence rippling across nearby stretches of darkened membrane.
The solitary fgure that stepped through the eye of the blue swirl didnt care that he
had disturbed the viscous pool, standing on it but not sinking in. The swirl closed behind him
and evaporated, plunging him into the perpetual darkness of
intergalactic night. Beneath him the membrane trembled in
several, rhythmic throbs.
Yes, yes, yes the man knelt down, peering into the
gelatinous ooze. I have again set foot on Focus Seven.
Wake, and serve me, for I am one of the true Gods.
It would take a time for the help to stir. He waited,
surveying the sky.
The galaxy shone from thousands of light-years away,
a smudge of luminous down covering thirty degrees of the otherwise pitch heavens. The man
smiled as he searched for Procyx, that tear in dimensions which other eyes here could not see for
thousands of years yet. He found it at last--a sparkle at the edge of the galaxy twinkling in the
same blue coherence as the vortexs fames that had brought him here. EndStar of Grief, he
muttered. You have no idea! It is but the dawn of grief!
The membrane quivered. He looked down and saw a siren shivering in the gloom. One of
her heads turned toward him. It grinned its razor teeth hungrily until recognition dawned and
quickly averted its eyes.
The man frowned, deciding whether to let it live for its insolence. No, best set an example.
He reached down through the membrane to where its fuid ran like oil, took the offending head
by the neck and snapped it. The rest of the siren failed in panic, and its banshees cry gurgled
up from the remaining head as it plunged away into some remote depths to die. The man stood
again, walking casually toward the edge of one of millions of road-ramps leading up from the
membrane toward a Portal generator. Once he had stepped onto the ramps meaty surface, the
membrane behind liquefed and would do so all across the planet now.
We have no power
that can stand against
the Golden Death. No
one does.
34
Fantasy Short
throne. And such inept dancing is an insult to your Queen! Rise, and be gone from this court!
The Queen gave three sharp claps. As if materializing from the air, two sentries in
polished armor appeared on either side of the ballerina so suddenly that Fizzbain heard several
ladies in the crowd stife their gasps. Elisabetta did not look at either of the guards; instead she
kept her head bowed low as she walked the long aisle with them from the great hall. The guards
fanked her like two metal behemoths while their booted footsteps reverberated throughout the
court. Although the girls steps faltered, neither soldier attempted to assist her. The great doors
slammed shut behind them, echoing throughout the palace court like the roar of angry dragons.
The Queen looked down at the jester still crouched at her feet and whispered to him as if
the incident with the girl had never happened. Had she thought to look, she would have noticed
the clowns two clenched fsts, fsts he would have gladly unclenched to wrap around the Queens
throat, would doing so enable him to rescue Elisabetta. But such intrepidity would have been
foolish even for a man who wore the cap and bells.
And now, Fizzbain, perhaps my little fool may help erase this atmosphere of gloom with a
bit of merriment? Come, make us laugh! From the way Drucilla spoke, one might have believed
the Queen of Hampstead had given her fool a choice.
Fizzbain swallowed his anguish and feverishly sorted through his repertoire of tricks
appropriate for the occasion, knowing that a poor performance meant that he also might leave
the Queens court this evening fanked by two sentries, later joining Elisabetta somewhere in the
bowels of the castles dungeon-keep.
A song perhaps, some frivolous little melody meant to tickle the spirits of the lords and
ladies of the court and fll the halls with roars of laughter? But one discordant note might remind
his Queen of the embarrassment of Elisabettas poor dancing, and the selection of a proper tune
was always a tricky business, for Drucilla was not a great lover of music.
Then perhaps some acrobatics; maybe a bit of expert juggling and spinning of dinnerware
guaranteed to please the whole assembly? But suppose he dropped one of the spinning plates?
Suppose in the midst of a somersault the jester miscalculated and landed ridiculously on his
posterior? Ah, but that was precisely what a fool did! Might Fizzbain not be allowed some
inexpertness precisely because of the capacity of his service?
On any ordinary evening he might, but not following on the heelsor more precisely, the
broken ankleof the unfortunate Elisabetta. The crowd of nobles waited in polite silence for the
jester to begin, but the idea stubbornly would not come to him.
Think! By all that is holy, let not inspiration fail me!
Think!
The idea hit the jester with the strength of a thunderbolt. Days earlier, Fizzbain had spent
a cold and rain-swept evening in the hut of Goffredo the wizard, renowned throughout England
for his potions and spells. The old mystic had found the little man in motley amusing, and while
not given to disclosing his more precious secrets of sorcery, Goffredo was not unreasonable when
it came to sharing a parlor trick or two.
Be ye familiar with the ancient art of transcendent sleep? the mystic had asked the little
clown, whose bells tinkled as he shook his head that he was not. Then pay heed, my little friend,
for I shall teach a trick guaranteed to capture the imagination of even the most cynical among
the Queens audience...
The wizard induced a trance upon the jester, some mystical manner of waking sleep that
enabled the Fool to bleat like a sheep and growl like a lion, although Fizzbain had never recalled
having the ability to do either. When he awoke with the memory of this fully intact he had only
continued from page 10
35
Fantasy Short
two words for Goffredo.
Show me! he pleaded.
And show him the wizard did.
Now the time had arrived for Fizzbain to show his Queen.
A subject! I require a subject from among the noble lords and fair ladies of the court!
the jester cried to the assembly. Now let me see... The little clown wandered among the crowd,
taunting and tantalizing the gentry playfully, stopping at a member of the assembly and staring
long and hard, as if pondering the persons suitability.
Perhapsyou? he suggested to Lord Alfred, a rotund and jolly hunting companion of the
King, whose ribald witticisms left something to be desired among the more demure ladies. Or
maybeyou? he suggested to Lady Esmerelda, the Duchess of Falmouth, a particularly ugly
and skinny woman with a large wart on the tip of her nose, who would have made a poor subject
for the company of noblemen with still-unimpaired vision. Spinning dramatically around to Lady
Anne, the beautiful and amply endowed young daughter of the Duke of Salem, the jester cried
out, You! Now here was a subject certain to catch the eyes of the gentlemen and the curiosity of
the ladies.
The girl squealed with delight, just as Fizzbain had expected she would. He held his fools
scepter before the girls eyes.
Do you see the dolls head of the little fool that sits atop my wand? he asked Lady Anne.
I want you to watch him...I want you to watch that little fool...watch him...watch him...
As he spoke he waved the scepter slowly until he saw the girls lids grow heavy and drop.
Goffredos lesson had taken an instant to carry out to perfection, and Fizzbain stole a glance over
his shoulder at Queen Drucilla in the certainty of receiving her approving smile.
But the clown would have preferred a Frenchmans pox to what he saw. His Queen was not
amused. Instead, she wore an expression as blank as a stones. Perhaps this transcendent sleep
had not been such a good idea after all, but the jester was in this up to his chops now.
Fizzbain calculated his next move cautiously, for one walked on treacherous ground when
he risked bringing even the slightest shame to any woman born of noble blood, and the Fool did
not intend his Queens affection for him to wane further. Leaning forward he whispered into
Lady Annes ear so that only she could hear.
You are asleep, are you not, my Lady?
Why, of course! she whispered back without the hint of a smile to indicate that she might
be telling him less than the truth. Fizzbain licked his lips, hoping that the daughter of the Duke
were still innocent enough to be unaware of the art of deceit.
Lords and ladies! he addressed the court. I give you a beautiful young noblewoman
who, for the next several minutes at least, will have fallen hopelessly in love with a simple
FoolThat is myself, your humble servant. He turned to Lady Anne and spoke to her. When
you awaken and hear me say Alas, my love! you shall throw your arms about me and declare
your everlasting love for me! And now, my Lady shall awaken when she hears me snap my
fngers...like so!
The young girls eyes fickered open, and blushing she looked round as if confused. I-I
believeI must have fallen asleep! she stammered with modest embarrassment beftting her
rank. IIplease forgive me, but I
The assembly howled, and the girls face reddened even more.
Reaching for his lyre Fizzbain added, I have a song to sing for you, Lady Anne. Your
beauty has touched my heart and inspired the muse within me. He paused and, winking at the
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assembly, began.
Alas, my love, you have done me wrong to cast me out discourteously...
Lady Annes face reddened, but this time not with the blush of girlish embarrassment.
Hunger came into her eyes. Her bosom heaved. She licked her lips, removing a silk handkerchief
from her sleeve and dabbing it against her brow as if suddenly overtaken with heat. The girls
expression changed to that of a woman on fre whose desires had overtaken her reason. Unable to
restrain herself, she threw her arms around the jester and covered his face with kisses, making
the awkward puckering sounds of one completely unfamiliar with the art of adult lovemaking.
Oh, Fizzbain! I shall love you forever! she moaned.
Alas, my love, and so you shall! the jester repeated with a wide grin, and the girls entire
body suddenly heaved in a most peculiar fashion. She threw herself directly upon him.
When the jester snapped his fngers again the girl stopped her kisses cold. Shaking herself
as if from a deep sleep, Lady Anne turned to the assembly in confusion and, realizing her arms
remained tangled around the little clown, she released him with a shove.
It appears a young maids forever arrives much sooner than a Fool might have wished,
spoke the jester with a shrug.
Thunderous laughter flled the hall, followed by even more thunderous applause. Fizzbain
bowed to his audience, bowed to Lady Anne, then turned to his Queen. Surely now the smile
would be upon her face.
But with one look at her the Fools eyes bulged like an insects, and the lyre fell from his
hands.
There sat his Queen licking her lips in the same manner as the girl had, her complexion
even more fushed, the hunger in her eyes bordering on ravenous. One look at her face explained
it all to Fizzbain. In watching him perform the wizards trick, somehow Drucilla had herself
fallen under the spell of the jesters transcendent sleep!
Oh, Fizzbain, she began. I too shall
Interrupting before anyone in the assembly might complete the Queens sentence for
her, the Fool snapped his fngers behind his back so that only his Queen might hear. Nothing
happened. He snapped again, this time harder. Nothing still. If anything, the look of hunger in
the Queens eyes had grown even more intense.
Oh, my sweet Fizzbain
The Fool reacted with the swiftness of a hunted rabbit. He scampered down the center
aisle to divert his audience from the throne, and clapping his hands three times, cried out,
Servants! Food servers! The Queens banquet begins!
Drucilla said nothing to contradict him, and her silence served as corroboration of the
jesters announcement. The assembly of lords and ladies fled from the great hall still laughing at
the evenings entertainment, mercifully oblivious to the sight of royalty melting behind them in
the hot juices of her passion.
When the great court had emptied, Fizzbain approached the throne. He looked up at
Drucilla. Again he snapped his fngers, this time right under her nose.
My Queen? he asked.
My love, she responded.
* * *
Hours past midnight the Queen called out, Fizzbain! Fizzbain! from her sleeping
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chamber, causing the Fool to wish he had joined the King at the Crusades in battling the
Norman army rather than listen to the womans shrieks. Once certain that sleep had overtaken
her, he took to his horse in the dead of night and rode to the very outskirts of Hampstead, to
the sorcerers dwelling. If the Queens spell had worn off by morning, instead of calling for him,
Fizzbain feared Drucilla would be calling for his head.
And what if the spell did not wear off? What if Drucillas love spread through her heart
like a malignancy? That was a possibility too horrible to consider.
Fizzbain crouched inside Goffredos hut, miserable and shivering despite the sorcerers
hearth fre. Either way, I am a dead man! the Fool moaned to the old sorcerer. And it is you
who have made me so!
And what of the poor ballerina Elisabetta? Goffredo asked simply, his face illuminated by
the crackling fames.
Elisabetta? asked Fizzbain. Shame touched his heart like a hot poker. In his own
torment he had forgotten hers. Whywhy, she will probably spend a few nights in the dungeon
accompanied by the rats and then be banished from Hampstead. Oh, I deserve the full measure
of my fate for having forgotten her! My companions should be the worms when this has ended!
Perhaps that may be, mused Goffredo. But you will have learned much before that
occurs, my friend. Tell me, have you not asked yourself why the Lady Anne did not remain under
the same spell as your Queen?
In fact, Fizzbain had not asked himself. The jester looked at the sorcerer and frowned like
a schoolboy at his books. Is it for the same reason I had forgotten about poor Elisabetta? Does
affections magic spell break so easily?
The wizard smiled at the words of the fool, for some things are better explained through
wisdom than through magic.
You are learning, my little friend. One does not often place his own heart second. No
wizards magic could make the Lady Annes love last longer than the duration of a few sighs,
for frivolity is the province of young girls. The Queen is another matter. Her beauty is a vague
memory to her, and her heart demands the passion denied it. The mere snap of your fngers
cannot break a spell that Drucillas heart, for its own sake, does not wish broken.
Fizzbain fell to his knees. Then I am surely a dead man! For bringing her such disgrace
the Queen shall serve my codpiece to the wolves while I am still in it! Worse, she may eat it
herself!
Perhaps, the wizard considered. But like the Queens passion, your concern for the little
ballerina has not vanished so quickly either, and your affection required no sorcerers trick. The
Queens remedy we can fnd. I am not so certain about yours. He removed a vial from among
many on his shelf and sniffed the murky contents, making certain he had selected the correct
potion. He handed the vial to the jester.
More of your wizardry? Fizzbain sneered.
An antidote, spoke Goffredo. Every sickness has its cure, and the Queens love is a fever
feeding on itself. Once the Queen drinks this she will remember nothing, save the excellent
performance of her especial jester this past evening. Drucilla will be as you remember her.
Fizzbain considered this, weighing the Queens former temperament against her present
ardor. Neither choice was especially pleasant.
She will not call out my name in the night? the jester asked.
Only when she wishes to laugh, Goffredo replied.
The Fools brain went immediately to work. He pictured the steaming pot of tea the
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Queens chambermaid, Emma, brought to Drucilla every morning at frst daylight. The deed
would not be diffcult to accomplish. He grasped the vial and stuffed it into his shirt. Preparing
to leave, he turned to the wizard.
Answer me this, Goffredo. Is there anything that might go amiss with this potion, similar
to your trick of transcendent sleep? Will you make room for my head on that shelf with your
various brews, should the Queen drink this and moments later transform into a giant newt?
The wizard laughed heartily. It had always been the sad fate of the Fool that even a
sorcerer could not recognize when he was perfectly serious.
Fizzbain returned to the castle with the speed of a man possessed by demons. He had
much to do before dawns light, but one task demanded precedence. The jester visited the
dungeon, for he had determined not to allow the ballerina one more minute in that dank, rat-
infested place. The Fool doubted little that his life would not be worth a hapenny when this was
over. Such heroics come easily to one with nothing to lose.
The prison guard was fast asleep, just as the jester had expected, and fortunately Fizzbain
needed no explanations to search the darkness for the girl. There were few empty cells in the
bowels of the palace, for the Queen took offense easily and punished frequently.
During a night flled with bewilderment, there remained one more as Fizzbain held up his
lantern to each stinking compartment.
Elisabetta was not in any of them.
He would ask Drucilla about the ballerina the moment the Queen had taken her tea, but
now that same tea required the Fools full attention. He hastened to the door of the royal bed
chamber, dreading the frst words the woman within might utter when she awakened. Hearing
her cry Fizzbain! Where is Fizzbain? he ground his palms into his ears.
The chambermaid arrived with the tea kettle. As the Queens wails for her jester persisted,
Emma stared at the cringing clown as if expecting an explanation.
All night long the Queen calls for you, the maidservant replied. And now she rises with
your name on her lips? Fool, logic seems to have deserted this place.
Fizzbain sneered back at her. What does a Fool know of logic? Something over the girls
shoulder seemed to suddenly catch his attention, and a smile smeared across his face. Why,
Emma. Is that Tom the cook I see at the staircase with his eye on you? As the chambermaid
turned to look, Fizzbain poured the wizards potion into the tea pot.
Cook? I see no cook, replied Emma, but when she turned back to the jester he was gone.
Fizzbain lingered beneath the staircase waiting for the maidservant to leave, then
carefully entered the royal chamber. Drucilla sat upright in her bed about to sip her frst cup of
tea, but noticing him at the door she put down the cup and smiled in a way that threatened to
crack the dried fesh of her face.
You have come to me! she cried, hardly able to contain her joy. Come, Fizzbain, sit here
beside your Queen. I have something to tell you that is so very sad. This she said without the
smile leaving her lips.
The jester sat beside her, staring at the canopy above him so as not to look into her smiling
face. Hearing her sip the tea Fizzbain grinned at the slurping sounds she made.
Do you remember that silly girl last evening, that clumsy ballerina who made such a fool
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of herself during last nights gathering? she asked.
Sip.
Fizzbain scratched his head as if trying to remember, pretending that a Fools brain had
little room for such detail. His heart raced with a stallions fury, but his face revealed nothing.
Well, it is no matter, continued the Queen. For, you see, unable to sleep last night and
flled with love for you, I visited the dungeon-keep and ordered the guards to release her at once.
I told the girl it was my love for a Fool that had induced my foolish heart to display mercy, for I
saw how you enjoyed her dancing last night, incompetent as it was. The poor girl cried out your
name that same moment. Why, I would swear the dancers love for you had equaled my own!
Sip.
And another sip.
Youyou released her? the jester asked, disbelieving this stroke of fortune, but careful
not to smile. Your show of mercy is sad news indeed, my Queen. Perhaps if you remain in bed it
shall pass.
The Queens next few sips were loud, and hardly displayed royalty. She reached for the
little clown, clutching him so tightly his bells played a symphony in her bed.
No, no, poor Fool! the Queen cried with a curious mixture of emotions impossible to
defne. It is not the girls story that is sad. It is yours! My irrational behavior last night is the
cost of love! I know not why I feel such love for a Fool; I know only that I do. And as long as I feel
this foolish love, such behavior will continue! I shall be laughed immediately out of my kingdom,
if I am not frst beheaded by the King. Fizzbain, this I can never permit.
The Queen pulled the jester even closer to her so that their faces nearly touched. Fizzbain
could not tell whether the fres of passion or rage burned in her eyes as she spoke.
Immediately following last nights fete I spoke to the headman. I ordered the garrotter to
remove your head the moment you leave my chamber. That is the reason I called out your name
throughout the night. I am afraid that the cost of reclaiming my dignity must be your head!
My head? he asked. It is a foolish head, flled with foolish thoughts! Why would you
want a fools head?
In exchange for a queens heart.
Fizzbain pulled himself free. Unable to speak, he tried to think. But the Queens words
were a hall of mirrors. By loving a fool she had become a fool herself. She had shown mercy and
she despised the weakness in herself for having shown it.
She loved him, and she hated herself for loving him!
Like cheap pottery these thoughts rattled inside the jesters head, a head that soon
would lie inside the executioners straw basket. But there was something he had momentarily
forgotten. Something important that Fizzbain had overlooked...
Her love for him had also set Elisabetta free!
And something else, something else...
The tea!
Suddenly the Queens eyes rolled inside her head, her body shook, and the tea cup spilled
from her hand. The wizards brew had fnally taken its hold! Perhaps there was hope that the
headmans basket might remain empty this morning. He watched Drucilla convulse for many
moments until, beaded with sweat, she turned to him as if awakening from a deep sleep.
My Queen? he asked.
My fool! she responded, and swung her head about as if shaking off cobwebs. What a
fever I have had. And such dreams! I could swear I had spoken to the headman about the matter
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of removing your head this very morning!
And why might a queen desire a fools head? asked Fizzbain, repeating his former
question, but the queens fushed face and averted eyes suggested this part of her dream she did
not wish to share.
Fortune had again smiled upon Fizzbain. But Fortune still required a little help from him.
The jester uttered a convincing moan. Well, this may have been a dream to you, perhaps,
but not to the garrotter who sharpens his axe even as we speak! He knows not that the words
you uttered were not the words of his waking Queen who, while in her sleep, spoke to the man
last night!
The Queen struggled to remember the strange dream, but already her memory had
clouded, just as Goffredo had said. She spoke almost apologetically.
I will see to it, Fizzbain. Call for the garrotter at once, and I will tell him there shall be
no fools beheaded this morning.
Before the woman had completed her sentence the jester had already catapulted himself
halfway to the door. Miraculously, the world had managed to set itself right.
Reaching for her stately robes and the jeweled crown Drucilla kept alongside her bed,
she stood before the mirror to ascertain the image of a queen refected in the glass. While
she reconstructed a semblance of royalty to her face, the mirror image seemed to stir another
memory of her dream.
Fizzbain, wait! she cried, spinning around to face him. You must also call for the prison
guards. I must undo another imprudent act at once!
The jester stopped himself cold at the half-open door, and turned to hear more of his
Queens command.
Such a world we inhabit when we sleep! she snapped at him, displaying the familiar
irritability the jester had known so well. In my sleep-walk to the dungeon I foolishly released
the ballerina last night! It is ill-beftting for a Queen to show mercy when insulted. I must inform
my guards to comb Hampstead for that girl, and when they bring her here I shall have her
broken ankle cut off! Her graceless dancing shall never again offend this kingdom!
The jester closed the door of the bed chamber and watched the Queen busying herself at
her mirror. She was again his Queen, he was again her fool, and Elisabetta...
He pictured Elisabettas eyes wet with tears, her face contorted in pain. And he pictured
her crying out his name in her dark cell.
Why, I would swear the dancers love for you had equaled my own, Drucilla had said. But
that was incorrect. Elisabettas love had required no sorcerers trick.
Nor had his.
You were right, Goffredo, Fizzbain muttered to himself, clenching his fsts. I have
learned much...
Without a word he approached Drucilla, noticing her bejeweled scepter as it lay in its
golden case upon the Queens dressing table. Removing it, he caressed the wand in his hands. He
touched the Queens shoulder with it, and she turned to him.
Why, Fizzbain, what is that youre doing with my?
Fizzbain smiled at his Queen like a dutiful servant.
Your majesty, I request only a moment of your time for a little trick I have learned. Now,
if you will just watch this red stone that rests atop your royal scepter...just watch...watch...for
only a moment longer, because I would like to sing you this little song...
Fizzbain sang quickly. He did not want to keep the Queens executioner waiting.
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The End
Ken Goldman (Kenneth C. Goldman), spends his summers in Margate City on the South Jersey
shore, and his winters in Lower Bucks County, PA. He has a Bachelors Degree in Education
and a Masters Degree in Counseling/Education. He is a retired high school English and
Film Studies teacher. His other publications include over 300 small press publications in
the U.S., Canada, U.K., Ireland, and Australia. You can fnd out more about him on his
website, www.authorsden.com/kennethcgoldman. Of The Queen Is Not Amused, he says,
Unrequited love. Yeah, been there, done that. Who hasnt? The most tragic hero is the little guy
like Fizzbain, a fool in the eyes of the world, who makes the ultimate sacrifce that no one knows
about. And yes, Ive been there and done that, too! At least as an author I get the chance to write
about it.
Leave a note for the author on our Message Boards.
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SciFi Short
Somethin...got into the garbage. They were having breakfast, and he was spooning
applesauce over his eggs and not listening.
What?
Garbage pails...spilled. Coons, I guess.
Did you leave the lid up? As he said it, he remembered the dull thud the plywood top
always made as it slammed down on the box that held the two white fve-gallon pails. He was
sure he had heard it last night.
No. There was a pause as she tried to talk around a half-frozen mouth. The tops
were...off...were clean, like Id washed em.
That got his attention. Emma cleaned like a brain surgeons nurse. Since her stroke, that
was about all she did except stare at her catalogs. Pushing his breakfast aside, he went out the
back door. There they were, lying on their sides, as spotless as the day he had brought them back
from the salvage yard. The lid to the box was hanging by one hinge. Raccoonswell maybe. He
couldnt remember the last one hed seen. There were no tracks or any other signs he could read.
He put the tops on the buckets, set them in the box and replaced the lid. He made a mental note
to refasten the hinge and went back to his breakfast.
He had stored and forgotten a lot of mental notes, and as Emma scrubbed the morning
dishes, she began to parade them out like long-lost friends. Back porch lights out...theres a drip
under...and along with the loose board... She had been mumbling the same list every morning
for a while now. This morning it was more than he could take.
I need to check on the bees. He walked out the back door and into the walnut orchard. It
was a place of solace. The spring grasses were starting to die now, and they brushed his hands
with heavy seeds. Next week a tractor would disc it all up to reduce the summer fre hazard.
Reaching up, he took his pith helmet and bee veil from the crotch of a tree. He slipped his head
through the netting and into the helmet. Protected, he glanced up to where his four hives sat on
tires at the edge of the orchard. He had them facing the morning sun so the feld bees would get
an early start. This morning there were only three.
For a moment, he was confused and had to count again. Then he saw the fourth. It was
scattered over the ground, bits and pieces here and there. Broken bottom board, a hive body
pushed out of shape and frames strewn everywhere. The shock numbed him and his stomach
turned over. His frst thought was neighbor boys or raccoons, but he knew better. Whoever had
done this was well protected or could stand a lot of pain.
He was just thinking bear when he was stung on the hand. The bees were still riled up,
and he walked to the side of the barn where he stashed his smoker. He swung back the rusty top,
stuffed in an old rag, and lit it. Working the bellows, he watched the spout until white smoke
poured out. From the back of the hives, he reached around to the entrance of each one and gave
them a good puff. When the bees calmed down, he examined the wreckage.
There wasnt anything he could salvage. He found a few clusters of dead bees in the
trampled grass. Some of the broken frames still had wires attached, coiling up to glitter in the
sun. He came across small pieces of dark wax, but the beautiful drawn comb, full of brood and
honey, was gone. In forty years of keeping bees, nothing like this had ever happened. A splintered
top bar had a line of puncture marks on one side. Teeth, big teeth, had to be a bear, but he had
never heard of one this far from the mountains.
Back in the house, he got out the county phone book and dialed the Ag Commissioners
offce. He was transferred twice before he got the man he wanted.
Ed Wynn here.
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You the county trapper?
Thats right.
This is Ray Simms. I live over on Las Gallinas Road near the park, and I got an animal I
need trapped.
Whats the problem?
A bear got one of my bee hives.
A bear! No bears in Ayacamas County.
Thats what I thought, but this hives been smashed to pieces. I got a top bar with tooth
marks on it. Big ones. There was a long silence on the other end.
Look, Im trapping wild pigs near Meadow Brook golf course and I gotta check my snares.
I can swing by your place late this mornin. Bet you got a couple of big old coons.
Ill be here. He gave directions and hung up. Emma was trying to read something, so he
sat on the porch and waited.
Ed drove up in an oversized pickup truck with fat tires and a full gun rack. Hey, youre
not so easy to fnd. Wheres your hive at? The trapper wore khakis with an Ayacama County
patch on one shoulder. Ray didnt like the looks of him. He was tall and heavy-set with a belly
hanging over a fashy silver buckle. His face was a hundred miles of bad road framed with a buzz
cut and aviation glasses. After a hard handshake, Ray led him back to the walnut orchard.
Pigs make a mess out of a golf course and the golfers want the county to help them out.
Ive snared fve this month and theyre still complaining. We only got one trapper now. Used to be
four of us when we was going after coyotes. Hell, you gotta have a permit to do anything now.
Ray fnally entered the conversation by pointing ahead. Just to the right of those three
hives. Dont worry about the bees, theyre plenty busy with the blackberry fow.
The trapper grunted. Now, coons can do more damage than people think. I killed one
last week over near the coast, musta weighed ffty pounds. Now a animal like that His words
died away as he took in the destruction. He knelt down and examined the splintered frames, the
squashed hive bodies and the broken lid. He searched the ground.
Ray watched, smiling to himself. Arrogant bastard, how long is it going to take before he
admits he was wrong? I got a top bar here with some marks on it. He held it out to the trapper
who reluctantly took it. He studied it for long time and made a big show of measuring the
puncture marks.
Wellguess it is a bear. He was quiet, turning the top bar over in his hands. Go about
three hundred pounds by the size of the marks. But his voice lacked confdence.
Figured it wasnt something any raccoon could do. Ray couldnt help himself.
The trapper ignored the remark and kept staring at the piece of wood in his hand.
Ray could see something was bothering him. Ever trap a bear?
Oh yeah, plenty of times. He seemed to break away from a trance. Look, heres what
well do. I got a couple of dogs thatll tree that bear in a fash. Ill come over frst thing in the
morning. It being Saturday, Ill do it on my own time, easier that way.
Ray hesitated, trying to think it through. All right. Can I come along?
Sure, but it might be hard to keep up.
Ill manage.
The trapper looked up the gentle slope, past the walnuts and into the oaks. How far do
the trees go?
Not too far, maybe quarter of a mile and then its all chaparral. BLM land.
Piece of cake, hell stay in the trees, and thats where well get him.
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Ray had to ask. What are you going to do when hes treed?
Depends on how big and mean he is. He was still looking at the bar with the tooth
marks. Must of come down from Ridge County. Its happened before, long time ago. He wont
stay long, nothing for a bear to eat around here. Better put a fence around those hives, he could
be back tonight.
They were at the pickup now. See you early, say six, get it over with before the day gets
hot. The truck roared to life and he drove off.
A fence, Jesus Christ, he didnt know much. You cant keep a bear out of hives once they got
a taste. Not even an electric fence would do it.
After diner, he and Emma sat on the front porch. They rocked and talked, or he did and
she tried. Then she couldnt stop yawning, so he helped her to bed. Making sure she was asleep,
he searched the house until he found a working fashlight. He took an old pad and a sleeping bag
and made a bed in the orchard where he had a clear view of his hives. He was glad tick season
was over.
In the barn, he took down an ancient double-barreled shotgun. Rummaging in a cabinet,
he came up with shells. He hesitated before putting birdshot in the right barrel and double
O buckshot in the other. Scare him off with the light stuff and if there is trouble, Ive got some
serious lead. He took along some extra shells.
It had been a long day and he fell asleep easily. Moonlight woke him and he sat up.
Looking around he saw the hives, dim square columns in the leafy shadows of a walnut tree.
The world was at peace, bathed in soft cool light, no sounds except crickets. This is silly. Hes not
coming back; I should go on in. Emma could take care of herself, but if she woke to fnd him gone,
she might worry. It was so soothing out here. He lay back down and dozed off.
He woke with a start to a loud noise. His heart raced and he fought to calm himself. He
reached for the gun and the light and came up with neither. There was a dark shape moving
between two of the hives. Now he had the gun in his hands and, clicking off the safe, made ready
to shoot.
Get out of here! His voice crashed against the darkness and scared him even more. The
shape instantly was larger, as if standing up. He tried to aim but it was a halfhearted attempt
and he was reluctant to pull the trigger. The form changed again and sped away. Ray blinked.
He had seen bears in Idaho and knew they were fast and silent, but that had been just a little
too fast. There was something else. He couldnt understand what he had seen just as the bear
disappeared. It was as if the bear wore a big hat. A hat like he might wear. Must have been the
moonlight, and indeed, the orchard was lit with an eerie glow.
No use trying to sleep now. He stood up, slipped on his boots, and took the shotgun back
to the barn. The moon was overhead and there was a hint of dawn in the east as he carried the
bedding to the house. By the time Emma woke, he had breakfast started. She moved awkwardly
around the kitchen until he pulled her close and nuzzled the back of her neck. She tilted her
head and giggled deep in her throat.
How did you sleep?
She didnt answer.
Oh, what I would give to see her smile again.
Ed Wynn was half an hour late and Ray had begun to hope he wasnt going to show up.
Listen. Heres what well do. The dogs will need to get the scent, then Ill turn them loose,
and well follow. Bear should tree pretty quick, and then its over.
He came back.
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Really? Did you see him?
Only a dark shape, and then he took off, fast.
Oh yeah, bears are fast, specially uphill. The trapper was dressed in camoufage from
head to toe, including his hat. He wore heavy black combat boots, had a pistol on one hip, and
a heavy knife on the other. Ray didnt like the looks of this at all. Taking a rife from the truck
rack, Ed walked back to the camper shell to let out his dogs.
I thought you were going to tranquilize him.
All depends. I got that stuff right here. He padded a shirt pocket.
Ray could see the two dogs were sorry excuses for hounds. One was hardly more than a
puppy. They tried to jump up and lick his face. Ed yanked them around on a leash and they set
off for the hives.
It was early and cold and the bees were not fying, so they could get close. Ed got impatient
when the dogs didnt fnd any track. He took the chewed top bar and held it out. They sniffed it
eagerly and looked up at him with innocent faces. The younger one started worrying a broken
frame. Ray could see they werent the least bit interested in chasing anything.
Which way did he go from here?
Ray pointed in the general direction he thought the bear had taken and the trapper
dragged his dogs to the spot. They both started barking and when they were good and excited, he
unsnapped their leashes. They charged off into the brush, tails wagging.
When they really start barking that means they treed the bear. With that, the trapper
took out after them. Ray hesitated. It would be a long shot for those dogs to fnd anything. Maybe
that was good. The thought of this clown killing a bear bothered him. Should just go on home and
let them exhaust themselves out there, but he had come this far, might as well see it to the end.
The switchback trail along Gallo Hill was the way to go. It was pleasant walking under the
big madrones with their muscled limbs and red bark. At the top he could hear barking, and took
a trail that went that way. Firs dominated the forest now, and he remembered how he and Emma
used to come up here in the fall hunting mushrooms. The baying didnt change, and seemed to be
going back and forth.
The sun was high and the chill out of the air when the sounds became fainter. He stopped
where the trees ended and the chaparral began. Bears werent supposed to be at home out in the
open like this. He wondered if the trapper knew anything about bears at all.
He made himself comfortable in the shade, found the water bottle in his daypack and took
a long drink. He lay back and, getting more comfortable, thought how good a nap would feel. A
loud crack broke the stillness. He struggled up as two more shots rang out, one after the other so
fast he couldnt count them. The sound echoed away across the hills and fnally died out. Damn
trapper had always intended to kill the animal. But what would he do with it? Ray had to go see.
He put on his straw hat and took the best path in the direction the shots had come from.
The trail was rough and brush tore at his clothes, but he knew exactly where he was. A
little farther and he would be able see down to where his gravel drive snaked away from the
highway. In less than an hour, he reached Nightjar Ridge. A wind came up, cooling the back of
his neck. He thought to yell, but stopped and listened instead. It was quiet. Chaparral as far as
he could see, no trapper, no dogs, and certainly no bear. The wind stirred the brush around him.
Admiring the view, he noticed a big patch of chaparral that the wind didnt move. A half-acre
block was frozen, like a painting. He stared and the form gelled into three spires, jutting like
needles from a giant pincushion. He couldnt fgure out what he was seeing.
A blast knocked him to the ground. Leaves and small branches pelted him, borne along
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in a roar of stinging dust. A crushing sound forced him to cover his ears and curl into a ball. The
noise rose in pitch until it was a sky full of screams.
When it went away, it took his breath and he writhed, gasping for air. I must be having a
heart attack, or some kind of stoke. What a terrible thing, to die like this on a fools errand. Who
will take care of Emma now? His heart ached and his head swam until everything dimmed and
went black.
He was aware of creaking sounds. He pushed to sit up and then realized he was breathing.
With a nervous laugh, he patted his chest and ribs. He felt all right, just sore from the hard
ground. What was that noise? It came from where the brush hadnt moved in the wind. It was
all popping back up from the ground, as if a huge foot had been standing on it. One by one, some
slow, others more quickly, branches were springing skyward. The chaparral was righting itself.
Already a sage thrasher had moved in and was singing from a broken manzanita. There was no
sign of the trapper or his dogs. The sun told him it was late and he needed to start back. Emma
would be worried, and it was a long way home.
She was waiting at the door when he got to the yard. They made dinner together and he
brought a bottle of wine up from the cellar. It was warm, so they ate on the porch.
Wheres th trapper?
I dont know. He and the dogs got ahead of me and I never saw them again. Hell be along
soon. But as he said it, he wondered.
The truck was still sitting there in the morning, so after breakfast he called the sheriff.
It was Sunday, and it was almost noon before two deputies showed up. It was the same two, but
they were a little more interested in this case.
You said he started out early yesterday.
Thats right, and I followed them for a while.
Them?
He had two dogs. Said he wouldnt be that long. I waited up the trail a ways and when it
got late I came back.
Did he say what he was doing?
This was going to be a bombshell and he didnt like it. He was chasing a bear.
The deputies looked startled. You sure thats what he said?
Yep, he took a heavy rife and a bunch of other stuff.
The young one stopped writing. Hes the County Trapper. They should have a record.
Ray didnt volunteer any more, and was thankful that the deputies had run out of
questions. He kept thinking about the brush, all crunched down and then popping up. He
watched as the older one got on the car radio and called for some help.
Well start searching as soon as the rescue team gets here. Can you show us where you
last saw him?
Sure, thats easy.
Ray led them through the orchard, giving the hives a wide berth. Right here is where
he turned the dogs loose. After they got to barking pretty good, he took off after them. They
thanked him and disappeared into the trees.
He woke in the night when they came back down, and he heard their vehicles drive off. In
the morning, the trappers truck was still there. The search team returned when he and Emma
were eating breakfast. They sat on the porch and watched. They could hear a helicopter fying
back and forth. This went on for three days, and then someone towed away the big pickup. They
saw it on the news; Ed Wynn, veteran county trapper, vanishes without a trace.
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A few days later, Ray opened the door to the barn and stumbled right into his welding rig.
When he got over the shock and the pain of a bruised shin, he realized he hadnt been in here
since the morning he put the shotgun away. Out of curiosity, he opened the valves and checked
the gas levels. Someone had used half the acetylene and nearly all the oxygen.
On the work bench, neatly laid out, were the pliers, the wrench, the ball peen hammer and
the three screwdrivers. The silver solder and brazing rods were missing. Somebody had done a
repair job with his tools and returned them.
The tools were cleaner than he ever kept them. In the tray on the welding cart, he saw the
striker and goggles, as well as the extra tips. Something else was there too. Something he had
never seen before. It was like a big clamshell, or maybe a simple rose without a center. It was
beautifully futed and gleamed like bright copper. He picked it up. It was cool to the touch and
rested easily in the palm of his hand. Made of some kind of metal, but he couldnt guess what. He
had an urge to listen to it. Pressed over his ear, it roared like the ocean. Just like a real seashell.
Emma would like this.
Look what I found out in the barn. Do you remember this from anywhere?
No... Emma held it, cupped in both hands.
They placed the bright metallic shell in the middle of the kitchen table where a vase of
fowers usually sat. It was a pretty thing. Ray liked the way it caught the sunlight and bounced
it around the room, like refections off a lake. It seemed to glow long after the sun was gone.
Several times, he came in to fnd Emma sitting at the table staring at it. Good as a catalog, he
thought. Then she began to listen to it too.
Two weeks later, he noticed his left shoulder wasnt hurting, even after weeding the
garden. Coming into the house, dinner was already on the table. That hadnt happened in a
while. He washed up and sat down.
Ray, I need you to fx the loose board on the back steps. Its dangerous going out that way
with a load of wash.
Looking up, Emmas smile fooded over him. He dropped his fork and started to cry.
The End
Ian Morrison lives in Kenwood California where he farms his own wine grapes and teaches
painting and pottery part time at a local high school. He holds a MFA degree from San Francisco
State University in Sculpture and has only very recently turned his attention to writing. The Bear
Hunt grew out of an actual experience he had with a bear.
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MohdAthon. He smirked, confdent that he could take any of them. Occasionally, he even
considered challenging some of the DorAthon. Most MohdAthon would not think of such
foolishness, but most lacked skill and ambition and would be happy to follow the DorAthon for
the length of their lives. Thytr would lead. To do that, the law was clear. Any DorAthon defeated
in battle by a MohdAthon would relinquish his position. The DorAthon had little to fear from
most MohdAthon. They were all shardsmen, and would all live until their lives were cut short,
but the youngers were babies of less than a half century. The DorAthon rode the Southlands
with a millennium of life behind them and all of the lessons time taught. Yet, Thytr marked the
DorAthon in camp and watched them. There was always something he could learn.
Nice movements, Thytr, Laramis said with a nod. Laramis had the kind of presence
that made weak men look away. Thytr was not a weak man, and he still wanted to look away.
Laramis was tall and broad-shouldered; his leathers shone like onyx, and a golden moon crested
the hilt of his blackshard, signifying his rank of undergeneral. Thytr mused that if all DorAthon
carried themselves with the pride that Laramis bore, the wars would turn out differently this
time. Go wash the blood and sand off your face, Laramis ordered Jerly, not even honoring him
by using his name.
Jerly struggled to his feet and ran toward the tents.
Any news on Kijin? Thytr longed to see the legend, to see him train and instruct.
Laramis smile receded. No, but hell be here within the fortnight. I suppose his name still
draws the MohdAthon.
Thytrs cheeks fushed. He wished he had not been so anxious. His patience and
savvy were no match for his skill with the blackshard, but he would learn. I meant nothing
disrespectful. We are well trained under your eye
The smile returned, but stopped before it reached Laramis eyes. Its understandable, and
youve given me no offense. Were I a MohdAthon, Id want to see the hero with my own eyes. Id
want to see if the man lived up to the legend. Youll have your chance soon enough.
Thytr sheathed his blackshard. I have no doubt that he will exceed expectation, Dor
Laramis. Thytr hoped his doubt was not apparent but, until then, only Laramis lived up to
the reputation of a DorAthon Shardsman. Some were soft, others seemed weak, and most had
a lazy look in their eyes. Will you or another older train tonight? Dor Altinons session on
counterstrikes was outstanding last night.
Yes, I saw you use the Higbert Sweep to fatten Jerly. Your execution was very solid. But,
walk with me and Ill tell you of a different plan for tonight. Laramis gave Thytr a look full of
promise and guile. Thytr followed to the edge of the training grounds and beyond.
* * *
Small parchment lanterns hung on poles in the ground, surrounding the mound at
the center of the valley. Thousands of stars glinted in the velvet sky. The heat of the day had
slipped away, replaced by a sobering chill. Excited talk about what would happen that night
rumbled into the silence of the night. In front of the group of MohdAthon lay ten square-hewn
sandstones. Behind the stones, the DorAthon stood with arms folded and expressions solemn.
Thytr stood at the front of the MohdAthon, trying to mimic the DorAthon.
In the center of the DorAthon, Laramis raised both arms, and the MohdAthon quieted.
He stepped forward and said, The camp is settled and your training begun. We have done
everything Kijin instructed us to do except one thing. Tonight we shall organize you in troops of
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ffty and call leaders among you. Each of the ten DorAthon shall be responsible for one troop,
and together with the MohdAthon captain we shall divide each troop into ten knots of fve. Your
knot will be your kin from this night forward. A shardsman knot can change the course of a war.
If you doubt me, ask Kijin when he arrives four days hence.
A ripple of excitement passed through the group, but Thytr held fast, eyes on Laramis.
Yes, we all look forward to his return. Laramis eyes paused as they panned past
Thytr. He continued, When I call your name, step forward and stand on the stone in the order
you name was spoken. Rizzart, Gellen, Derji, Hartlin, Draadri Thytr waited, expectantly.
Weldrig, Fewwn, Straugen, Nerti, and Thytr.
Laramis had promised Thytr he would be called, but he had not let himself believe it
until he heard his name. As he stepped forward, he glanced at the other MohdAthon who came
forward. He had seen nearly all of them train and respected the DorAthons choices. They were
the best. For a moment, he locked eyes with Hartlin and saw challenge in the others gaze.
After the captains reached their places, each DorAthon walked to his position behind a
stone. Thytr felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He looked and saw Laramis slip around to the
front and speak. These are your captains, MohdAthon. Know that our eyes have selected the
best among you. The strongest, the most skilled, the most cunning. But now it is time to see
which of the captains will take lead of this company.
Laramis turned to face the captains and said, Any who wish to take charge of this
company and report directly to me, and Kijin, step off of your stone and approach.
Thytr strode forward, not even looking at the other captains. He doubted any would
challenge him exceptHartlin. The other captain matched his stride.
Laramis beamed, seeming pleased at the two who sought command. Thytr thought he
saw Laramis fash disdain for the other captains who stood on their rocks. Thytr glanced at
Hartlin, weighing him. Hartlins broad shoulders framed the top of a strong, but not bulky
form. He looked quite a bit like Laramis. Thytr was a good hand shorter and more on the thin
side, but it was the skill with the blade and not the strength of the arm that would settle this
contest. Laramis had told him what would happen if more than one captain stepped forward. He
wondered if Laramis or another DorAthon had told Hartlin.
The MohdAthon cheered. Laramis turned and raised his arms again. Silence. Hartlin
and Thytr both seek the command and each may be worthy, but in the end, only one can lead.
The other DorAthon began gathering lantern poles as Laramis ushered the MohdAthon
to the training grounds. Moments later, they were gathered around the center sparring ring.
Thytr tightened his leather armor as he walked in a crowd of MohdAthon. Jerly pushed
through and wished him luck. Thytr doubted he would need it. He drew his blackshard and
felt the grip reassuringly in his hand. Other MohdAthon moved away as he whistled the blade
overhead to loosen muscles tight from training. Hartlin followed Thytrs lead and did the same
on the opposite side of the circle.
Thytr continued his warm-up routine a little faster than normal. He caught himself
stealing glances at Hartlin and scowled to himself for his lack of confdence. Still, Hartlin worked
with a quickness that seemed forced. Several of his deeper lunges lacked crispness, hinted at
overextension. Their eyes locked and Thytr decided Hartlins harbored a sliver of uncertainty.
Thytr continued his movements and wondered if his eyes said the same.
Laramis strode into the training ring with a lantern post in his right hand, and bade the
MohdAthon to assemble and be still. DorAthon set lanterns every few feet around the ring,
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leaving the inside as bright as midmorning. Laramis walked around the perimeter of the ring,
pushing back those who crowded the edge and then took his place at the southern point. Thytr
waited, feeling time slow. Finally, Laramis brought his hands together, and the combatants
stepped into the circle to face each other.
It began.
Thytr tensed the muscles in his right arm to keep ready, and advanced with the
blackshard angled low. Hartlin began circling to the right, shuffing his feet and stirring up sand.
Thytr thought he was preparing for a peripheral attack and readied himself. But then, Hartlin
planted his right foot and charged, blade spinning like pochy seed in the wind. He came much
faster than Thytr expected. Blows rained down like hammer strokes. Hartlin was stronger than
Thytr expected too. Signifcantly. Although he was quick, Thytr moved through his defenses
quicker, and eluded the powerful strikes.
By angling his blackshard overhead, Thytr was able to defect Hartlins attack without
absorbing the force of the blows. Keeping light on his feet, he dodged and positioned himself
to defend the assault. Keep coming, he thought. Strength would work against Hartlin if he
maintained the furious drive. Thytr moved through several defenses: Jealtigs Parry, Hopping
Bearcat, and Weafrys Posture. His training manifested without thought as he withstood the
assault. Hartlins strikes became slower, weaker. With a grunt, Hartlin lunged forward to bear
Thytr down with the weight of his body. Thytrs blackshard was out of position to counterstrike,
but he was able to twist away and elude Hartlins dive. Spinning and arcing his shard above his
head, Thytr readied himself to deliver the fnal blow. He cried a death yell, and drove his blade
down toward his foes exposed back.
But Hartlin was not fnished. He slid aside and kicked at Thytrs legs, catching him
just below the knee. Had Thytrs foot been planted, the knee would have been ruined. Like a
bobbing wren, Thytr hopped side-to-side and avoided Hartlins fails. Before Hartlin could gain
his feet, Thytr kicked his support arm, bending his elbow to the ground at an unnatural angle.
Hartlin wailed and tucked the arm in. His shard was in the wrong hand as he lay prone.
Enough! roared Laramis. He jumped into the ring and congratulated Thytr. Thytrs
heart beat so fast, and thoughts of running his shard through Hartlins ribs so overcame him,
that he heard nothing Laramis said.
The crowd roared.
* * *
The following day, Laramis woke Thytr early, and took him outside the valley and into the
rocky hills for leadership training. Thytr would have enjoyed the opportunity to spar with the
other MohdAthon in camp and feel their respect as he worked among them, but he relished the
separation and recognition Laramis offered him.
Your troop is raw, but shows promise, Thytr. You chose well in selecting your men.
The camp is full of good soldiers, I would have done well had I chosen with eyes closed.
Laramis chuckled. Take the compliment, Thytr. Although there are plenty of good men in
the camp, and none who wear the title shardsman are unworthy, some have more ability than
others. And you kept the weaker men out of your troop. He walked forward with his back to
Thytr, which kept Thytr silent until he turned and rested on a rust-colored boulder.
Thytr bit his cheek to stay quiet. His tongue had often brought him trouble while he was
growing up, but he would learn to control it. When Laramis made eye contact, Thytr said, After
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sparring with a great number of them, the choices became clear. He wanted to remain humble
in front of the undergeneral, but could not resist adding, Of course, having earned the right of
frst choice by taking command of the MohdAthon, I did not have to rely on another making a
mistake for me to get the men I wanted.
Laramis chuckled some more. Indeed, Thytr, you earned that right. You should be pleased
with your station.
I am. Some men are content to walk behind, but others want to walk in front. I think
were both the kind who prefer the view from the front of the line.
It smells better up front, too. After youve trained in the Coable for a summer fortnight,
youll appreciate a nice headwind as you march.
For the greater part of the day, and as the sun bore down on them in their black armor,
Laramis instructed Thytr in the details of military command, tactics, and protocol. Thytr had
picked up quite a bit from his years of training in the compound near Hartogh Plateau, but he
still had much to learn. By mid-afternoon, sweat beaded and rolled down his back where the
armor gapped, but Laramis continued. In the end, Thytr respected Laramis even more for his
thoroughness.
Not a bad day of work, Thytr, Laramis complimented, retrieving a towel and skin of
water from his pack. He took a long drink and tossed it to Thytr.
Thanks. He tried to hide his disappointment at not being able to learn more with the
blade.
There will be more days like this over the upcoming weeks, but youll get to use your
shard as well. Laramis wiped the sweat from his brow with the towel.
Thytr smiled. He checked the horizon and estimated that a little less than a quarter-days
light remained. Looks like the day isnt over. We could draw our blades and go through a session
of reversals. Ive heard you turn the Geltrip counterstrike faster than anyone.
Laramis laughed, Ill be teaching counterstrikes to the other captains tomorrow night and
youll get your chance to test me then.
Thytr was glad the heat of the day and exertion had already left his cheeks red. I didnt
mean that I wanted to test you.
Of course you did. If you didnt, you wouldnt be half the captain I expect you to be.
He gave Thytr a knowing look, which Thytr returned. If a man has pride in his abilities, he
naturally wants to display his skill and prove himself.
Is that true among the DorAthon?
Of course. Laramis smile stopped short of his eyes. That was why the Council
established the Shardsman Code eleven centuries ago.
Thytr had not yet adjusted to the idea of living forever. Of course, with war on the horizon,
many mens lives would be cut short. Not his. He would learn to enjoy longevity and use his years
to advance into the hierarchies of the Shardsman Order.
What do you mean?
Most DorAthon paid little attention to the MohdAthon, let alone shared stories with
them, and Thytr hoped to draw something out of Laramis.
Im sure youve heard the legends.
Thytr said nothing.
Alright, Ill humor you with a short tale. Shortly before the end of the early wars, our
fate started to become clear. Our raids cost more lives than they claimed, and our forces shrank
like a wool undershirt in hot water. Dissention entered the order. Some who followed wearied
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of their toil in defeat. Challenges to the leadership became more and more common. Soon, more
shardsmen died on blackshards than on the tynthian steel of the Northlanders. Laramis paused
to drink from his skin.
Thytr waited.
The generals retreated to Grednal Fortress and sat in council for more than two
fortnights. When they emerged, the Code had been established. No longer could one shardsman
challenge another. Other standards were codifed and delivered to the ranks. Ever since, we have
lived by those rules.
Thytr had not heard anything new, but he enjoyed hearing Laramis tell the legend. For
a moment he worried that he may have presented himself as a lack wit. Of course, Ive been
taught the Code from the frst day I entered training, but it is always an honor to hear the legend
from one who lived it.
Laramis swallowed more water. Indeed.
* * *
The next day passed much as the former, with long, hard instruction under the desert sun.
The training in the evening, however, made up for the long hours. Thytr enjoyed matching skill
with the other captains, proving he was better. He quickly mastered the movements Laramis
performed. Instinct gave him a distinct advantage, and dedicated focus allowed him to bear
the new lessons into habit with but a few practices. By the time the night was over, the other
captains faces dripped with blood and sweat. Cuts on cheeks, welts over ears, and swollen
bruises all over their heads bore witness of their mistakes. Thytr only sweated.
He was ready to see Kijin.
Two nights later, the legend arrived. At dusk, a caravan of fve shardsmen rode into
camp on battle mounts, and fve black-cloaked kymers followed in an open carriage drawn by
four immense horses. Thytr had never seen such immense beasts. Yet, even more impressive
was Kijin, who stood in the stirrups atop a sleek black and gray gelding appraising the camp
with a smirk. The famous pock scars on his left cheek glistened under a sheen of sweat. Kijin
rode through camp without uttering a word. Upon reaching the command tent where the other
DorAthon waited, he walked past them and entered. He did not emerge again that night.
* * *
The next morning, Thytr worked his men hard in the burning sun. Taking Laramis advice,
Thytr taught them frst to move as a unit, marching in formation. Second, he taught them
to respect and hate him. If they thought of him as a friend, they might take him for granted,
pay less heed to his orders. He cracked his knuckles on the head of a slow-moving soldier who
outweighed him by a grain sacks weight. Thytr demanded precision. His soldiers quickly learned
to deliver.
The camp and training grounds hushed when Kijin staggered from the tent, shielding
his eyes from the burning sun. Thytr, having marched his company in formation for most of the
morning, breathed heavy in the middle of the training grounds. Even from the distance, he could
tell something was not right with Kijin. Laramis nearly sprinted after his general, and when he
caught up, he supported him with an arm. Kijin vomited, then laughed while the sick dripped
off his chin. Men in Thytrs company and others started moving toward the tent, but Laramis
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shook his head. The captains and other DorAthon barked out orders for the men to return to the
various tasks that had previously occupied them.
Thytr spat what little saliva his mouth would render upon the sand. His stomach felt like
a butter churn. He wanted Kijin to be different than the other DorAthon. Like Laramis. He
expected something different. His men would hate him, but he did not care. Until mid-afternoon,
they marched at double speed south into the desert. They had no food, but Thytr would not have
given them time to eat if they had. He needed to get away and think.
Perhaps Kijin was ill, Thytr mused. Perhaps he had not seen what he thought he saw.
Thytr hoped he was mistaken, but doubted it. Drink and Hundant Weed had claimed his fathers
life. Thytr knew addiction when he saw it. Knew how a man could relinquish control of himself to
a bottle or a powder.
Captain! Drandar and Thues are falling behind, Feldman said, breathing hard.
Thytr was lost in thought and had to hear the message a second time before he ordered the
company to march in place while the others caught up. After Thues reached them with a crimson
face drenched in sweat, Thytr allowed the men a drink from their canteens and a short break. He
could tell Thues hurt from the look on his face, but Thues did not complain. Thytr was pleased
with his men.
That evening, Laramis came to Thytr while his company received a well-earned meal.
Kijin wants to meet the captains tonight.
Thytr took a moment to look up. Yes, sir. He started to rise, but Laramis put a hand on
his shoulder.
Finish your meal and fnd a wet rag to scour your face. A change of tunic would also serve
you well.
Thytr cringed. Of course. Thank you, Dor Laramis. He looked at the olders eyes, hoping
to fnd an answer to the doubts he could not shake. What he found chilled him. Laramis eyes
held the same uncertainty.
Thytr grabbed two sweet apples as soon as Laramis left and snapped off large chunks
as he jogged to his tent. Sticky juices dribbled down his chin. Once inside, Thytr peeled off his
leather armor and undertunic, and wrinkled his nose at the stench. He longed for a swim or even
a tub of water, but in the desert damp rags were the only weapon against the stink of body and
cling of sand that training brought. Water from the well quenched the shardsmens thirst, but
could only go so far.
Wearing a moderately fresh uniform in place of his training gear, Thytr jogged to the
command tent. A handful of the other captains had already gathered outside, so he did not
announce himself to the DorAthon within. Hartlin stood a short distance away from the other
captains. He stood slump-shouldered and dour-faced. Thytr thought of talking to him, but did
not know what to say. Perhaps it would have been better on all of them if Dor Laramis had let
him kill the other captain. Few shardsmen placed life above honor.
Heard you nearly killed half your company, Captain Thytr, Gellen said with an extended
hand. His smile bore more admiration than sarcasm.
Thytr gripped hands with him. I fgured we were preparing for war not a chamber
ball.
Gellen and the other captains laughed. Thytr wondered if they thought he was funny or if
they laughed because they viewed him as a superior. Gellens smile seemed genuine.
Somebodys got to dance with the maidens when we return. Gellen was handsome and
would probably have his pick after the war.
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After what seemed like a long wait the last of the captains, Straugen, arrived. He looked
like he had taken a maidens turn at the mirror fxing his long black hair. Thytr scowled a little
and mussed it in spite of the man. The other captains laughed again. Thytr challenged Straugen
with a stare, but Straugen quickly averted his eyes.
Enter. Dor Laramis welcomed them into the command tent and directed them to sit
around a long table.
The smell of oiled canvas, incense, and burned oil covered an underlying odor of spice
rum. The sun had not set outside, but the large tent was dark save the fickering glow from a few
lanterns set on the table. None of the DorAthon except Laramis and Kijin were present, but two
bald-headed kymers in long black robes stood behind Kijin at the head of the table. A steaming
mug of dark brew sat before him.
The captains had lingered in the entryway of the tent. Laramis ushered them toward the
table and indicated where each should sit as he announced them to Kijin. Thytr was pleased to
claim his seat at Kijins left hand, with Laramis at the generals right. Thytr thought Laramis
looked weary, maybe nervous. Thytr wanted to take a long look in Kijins eyes, but knew it would
be offensive, or challenging to do so. Out of respect for Laramis, he sat silent with eyes forward.
Kijin leaned back in his chair. He whispered to one of the kymers, who retrieved two long
scroll cases from a chest near the back wall of the tent. Kijin snatched the cases from the mans
hands and twisted the end cap off one. He peered in and tossed it to the ground. He opened the
second and pulled out a tattered yellow scroll. A map. Thytr and Laramis aided Kijin. Together,
they laid out the map and placed lanterns on its corners to keep it from rolling back, and to shed
light on the faint ink drawings. In detail, the borders, names, and geography of the Freeland
Nations spread out before them.
Kijin drank slowly from the mug before rising to his feet. More than a dozen centuries
ago, my frst company marched from the edge of the Coable to Saivers in less than three weeks.
He indicated the path on the map. We avoided contact in the woodlands of Calhoun, the
grasslands of Polderia, and laid siege to the crossroad city for more than a fortnight. It fell. I
thought we had cut out the heart of the Freelands by claiming its largest city. Other forces led by
other generals did the same in Barrihem, Krentok, and Jeang Lin. We were fools.
Kijin paused while he drank to the bottom of the mug. His eyelids were thick and red, like
he had sat too close to the downwind side of a green campfre or had not slept in a week. Yet, he
continued with only a little slurring of speech.
What we had done was drive the armies into the country where they gathered numbers
and cut off our supply lines. We were as good as left on an island for them to pick away at like
mice on a block of cheese. Before long, we were forced to retreat. When we came again, the cities
were fortifed. We never broke them with any lasting success. You all know the stories. That is
why, this time, we will handle things differently.
Kijin raised the mug again only to discover it was empty. Spitting in disgust, he thrust the
mug at the kymer who had retrieved the map. Moments later, he drank again.
This time, we have the numbers. This time, we are going to claim land and defend it as
we go. There will be only one front to defend at a time. The scars on his cheek twitched as he
smiled. Oh, there will be other objectives and some efforts are already underway. But those
wont concern any of you. He smiled at Laramis. This company will start the attack on the
woodland realm of Calhoun. Your men will scour the forests and burn out the Delvin bowmen.
You will claim our frst toehold.
Thytr remembered one of the worst Southland defeats, one that changed the course of the
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war, was a rout in the Calhoun. They would lose many men. Yet, the challenge exhilarated him.
Kijin indicated on the map several of the routes that led through the forest to Delvin. Then
he dropped back into the seat. Swirling the liquid in the mug, he paused. Without looking up he
said, You are my captains. I trust that Dor Laramis and the other offcers chose well, and that
youll be competent leaders. What I have told you tonight you shall keep to yourselves until the
orders to move out are given. You are dismissed. In a breach of etiquette, Kijin remained sitting
as the captains left.
The setting sun seemed bright as midday when Thytr emerged. Inside, he was a mixture
of excitement and disappointment. That he would be able to lead his troop into battle in the near
future was more than he hoped for. He had expected to set up camp and wait for the forces to
build in the valley before launching the invasion. He was ready to go, and believed that his men
would be ready soon. Yet, Kijin was not who he expected.
Hold up, Captain Thytr, Laramis said, jogging to catch up. Lets have a word.
Laramis took Thytr to a rocky place on the western ridge. They sat with the last light of
the sun on their backs, looking down on the camp. Hundreds of soldiers prepared for the night,
moving about the tents like bees in a hive.
What do you think? Laramis asked.
Thytr knew what he meant, but did not know what to say. He paused. I think I always
pictured him as being bigger.
Laramis chuckled. Most people do. The man could never live up to the size of his legend.
He looked more serious. Ill deny ever telling you this, but it eats at him. He breathed in
through his nose and bit his lower lip. He can meet the expectations people have for him. When
hes sober. But those days dont come as often as Id like.
Thytr did not know what to say. He was relieved that Laramis shared his concerns, but
almost broken hearted that someone he always wanted to know, wanted to be like, could be so
fawed.
Laramis continued. I suppose I thought the war would clean him up. At times it has.
But not enough. I cannot tell you specifcs, of course, but the war plan is very complicated and
requires diplomatic sensitivity and precise timing. I fear what will happen when the pieces of our
plan start to fall in place and forces are put into motion.
Laramis rose and kicked a few clumps of sand into the air. If we launch our attack
too soon, the occupation forces will be too far behind, and the diplomatic elements will be
compromised. Yet, he is anxious to get started. To fnish the job that has hung over his head for
too many years.
But didnt he kill General Vanderhesche himself? Didnt he claim the greatest victory in
the wars?
Laramis shook his head. Oh, he killed Vanderhesche. I saw it. But that was a strike of
desperation when the Freeland victory had already been sealed. The war was lost. Finding joy in
the assassination is like celebrating the one stalk of grain standing after a hailstorm has ruined
the crop.
Thytr nodded his understanding.
Laramis clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the camp below. Thytr felt the
silence loom awkwardly. Laramis fnally turned and faced Thytr.
Sometimes we must do the unthinkable for the good of the many. His words were
measured in delivery and left no doubt as to their meaning.
Under the Code, Laramis was powerless to do anything but follow. He could not challenge
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Kijin, and if anything untoward happened to the general and blame was discovered in Laramis,
his head would hang on a pike. No, the law was clear. Only a MohdAthon could remove Kijin.
And what MohdAthon would have a chance against the legend?
Thytr had very few doubts about his abilities, but he knew he was no match for Kijin.
Are you asking what I think youre asking? Thytr thought his words sounded cheap and
unsophisticated. Yet, he did not know how else to ask without putting himself on treasonous
ground.
Laramis cocked his head. I love him as a brother, but I cannot condone the risk he
places us all under. We cannot fail because of one mans weaknesses. He nodded at Thytr. If
all things were equal, you would last no longer than a lamb against him. But if challenged, he
would have to accept before the sun set or surrender to you. Normally, he awaits dusk to begin
his indulgences, but if he feels secure, he may start early. I expect it may take more than a week
before he would let his guard down in a new camp.
Thytr could not believe what they were considering. It scared and thrilled him. And if I
won?
He would be replaced. By law, the replacement would be the victor or the offcer next in
line. The decision would be made by the commanding offcer in most cases. But, as Kijin has no
commanding offcer, the other offcers in our unit would vote. In the present situation, I would
almost certainly advance to general. I would then be free to name my undergeneral. He smiled
at Thytr. A genuine smile. I would owe you a great debt of gratitude. As would the rest of the
Southlands. Trust me when I say you would be rewarded.
Visions of the possibilities raced through Thytrs mind, overwhelming him.
I know this is not the sort of thing one enters lightly. As I said before, Ill deny every word
if this gets out, so guard your tongue. The decision is yours. You should have at least a week to
make it.
Thytr nodded. Down in the camp, lights fared and fashed in brilliant colors, dancing in
the air like soldiers engaged in battle.
Laramis shook his head. Kijin has the kymers putting on a show for the soldiers. You
wont want to miss it.
They walked down the slope side by side. After a particularly impressive shower of sparks,
Thytr whistled in admiration of the show. Ive never seen kymers use their talents in such a
way.
Truly, it is a waste of talent. I just hope the sparks dont rise high enough for Calhoun
watchmen to notice.
Thytr felt embarrassed that he had not considered the risk.
Laramis slowed him down as they neared the outer ring of tents. Starting tomorrow, end
your training with your company by dinner and plan on spending an hour or two with me in the
evening. I think I may be able to show you a few attacks that would serve your style well.
Thytrs heart beat fast. He struggled not to smile too stupidly as he accepted the offer.
* * *
Over the following days, Thytrs training went well. He thoroughly enjoyed sparring with
Laramis, who was the frst person he had faced who matched his ability with the blackshard.
More than matched. Thytr thought he had impressed Laramis with how quickly he grasped
the lessons. Not once, however, did they revisit the discussion about Kijin. His problems were
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kept mostly within the command tent. Yet, on occasion, his bellowing laugh could be heard by
shardsmen training nearby.
On the fourth evening after their conversation on the rim, Thytr had felt the fat of
Laramis practice blade twice on his right cheek before blocking the complicated attack as he had
been instructed. The wooden blades knocked together, and he turned to his left to position for a
counterstrike.
Good. That time you kept your elbow high enough to defend with the shard.
Would I be better served to counterstrike with a full stroke, or a Crandle Drop?
A modifed Crandle Drop, actually, Laramis said, switching his blade to his left hand
and showing Thytr the ideal angle to strike. You wont be able attack your opponents vitals, but
youll get a clean slice at his right leg. Practice carefully and if your pivot comes quick enough,
you can cut the tendons in his knee. Thats almost as good as a death strike.
Four more times, Laramis pressed the attack faster and faster, but Thytr was ready each
time. The pivot fowed naturally and the counterstrike became more effcient with each practice.
On the last counterstrike, Thytr even glanced a blow off Laramis knee with the practice blade.
Excellent. Laramis smiled as he kicked in the air, fexing his knee. Seemingly satisfed
with its movement, he tossed the wooden blade to the ground and walked over to his water skin.
Thytr was happy for the break. He normally endured hard training better than the other
soldiers, but Laramis always pushed him farther than his comfort zone. He gulped a couple
swallows of cool water and dropped the skin to the ground. Not too much or his side would ache.
Besides, Laramis might push him for another hour before fnishing the session.
You wont mind if we go a little long tonight, will you? Laramis asked.
Thytr shook his head. If your leg doesnt hurt too badly, we can go all night. He worried
that he might be getting too comfortable with his senior offcer. A week ago he would not have
even considered teasing a DorAthon.
Laramis chuckled. Ill make sure you have a lump on your forehead to match the bruises
on your cheek. Maybe tomorrow night your shard will be as quick your tongue. He winked, and
Thytr did not know if he was serious.
Laramis continued. Things have changed, Thytr. He drank while Thytr wondered what
he meant. Our time is nearly spent. Kijins kymers have been reading the moon cycles, and we
will have black skies for the next week and a half. Storms approach, and we will either be caught
in the weather, which we have planned for, or we can take advantage of the opportunity by
moving on the woodland realm. Kijin wearies of waiting. He has asked us to gather the captains
at midday and give the orders to prepare to break camp the following morning.
Thytr studied Laramis as he spoke and saw the doubt in his eyes. You think it folly?
I would never publicly second-guess my general. But, your men need more training and
our siege needs more numbers. We were supposed to be the vanguard, not the entire assault.
So we are going to go through with our plan, then?
That is up to you. Ill give you a little more training tonight if you are still inclined
to carry it out. Laramis gaze left Thytr feeling like a piece of butchers meat that had been
weighed and measured.
I am willing to do what is best for my men and our people. But, I dont know what chance
I will stand. Training with Laramis had proved to Thytr that others were better than he.
Youll need an advantage, but I think you will get it. Kijin has always been one to
celebrate on the eve of a march. I expect that much of the afternoon we will feast and drink.
Judging by his current inclinations, Kijin could be induced to drink more than he ought. If you
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waited til near dusk to challenge him, youd have the only clear head in the battle.
My victory would be tainted. Thytr kicked a clump of sand into the air. He did not like
the thought of challenging a vulnerable man.
This isnt about honor or chivalry. Its about stopping a horrible mistake before it
happens. Laramis dropped his water skin and stared at Thytr. Will you do it?
Thytr chewed the inside of his cheek. He could die. He could be a hero. Or, maybe, he could
be the greatest villain in the Southlands. He could live with that.
Yes.
Laramis mouth made a barely perceivable smile.
More than three hours later, two men walked down the slope to a dark camp. The younger
of the two wore a lump on his forehead the size of a swallows egg, and both dripped with sweat.
* * *
The hollow whistle of a stringed reed being swung drew the MohdAthons attention near
midday. The captains had been advised to train within the valley all day. Thytr believed he
was the impetus for that instruction, as he had gained a reputation for hard morning marches.
His men would thank him later when they survived a battle because their legs did not falter
when ambushed at the end of a long march. In war, fatigue killed as many men as weakness,
ineptitude, and stupidity. His men would die from none of those. It was a hot day, and the smell
of sweat would have driven any refned woman from the valley. But the shardsmen would face
much worse in the days to come. They packed in near the familiar training grounds where
Thtyr had been named captain only a few nights earlier. He remembered the fght with Hartlin.
The thrill of victory. The cheers of the shardsmen. The fear and admiration in their eyes in the
days that followed. What could he expect if he won that night? He forced doubt away like an
unwelcome beggar. When he won that night?
Laramis and the other DorAthon patrolled the front of the crowd, where captains stood
ready. Laramis held up his hands, and soon the valley was silent. Kymers, wearing long black
robes that shimmered in the sunlight, glided across the sand to the front of the gathering like a
pack of wraiths. Thytr thought they looked unnatural in the daylight, like they belonged to the
night. From within their midst, Kijin emerged. He looked every bit as impressive as he had the
day he rode into camp. His armor gleamed in the sunlight. His hair was combed and his eyes
were sharp and cunning like a wolf s. As he prepared to speak, the corners of his mouth turned
down into a sneer.
Kijins voice boomed over the gathering, You are not one quarter as many as the army I
led north those long centuries ago. Maybe not one tenth. You are not as prepared as were those
shardsmen. Death will come to you as quickly as it came to them. But victory will come even
more quickly.
The shardsmen, who were growing nervous, cheered at the last line.
Kijin waved them into silence. You will be the frst to draw blackshards. And, by the will
of the creators, you will be the last to clean the blood from your blades when the war is over.
More cheers. Kijin paced in front of the soldiers, staring at individual men as he went. Thytr met
eyes with him twice. Each time, Thytr felt an icy pain in the depths of his stomach and cursed
himself for his weakness.
The DorAthon will instruct your captains regarding specifc assignments, but I will
tell you that the entire camp will be engaged in claiming the Calhoun Forest as our toehold on
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the Freelands. Once we control the woodland realm, our armies will be able to amass on the
border without being seen. The forest, its villages, and even the great city of Delvin will offer up
bounteous supplies. The days ahead will be the most critical you will face, and shall forge in you
the metal of your character.
The MohdAthon cheered where appropriate, but Thytr could feel an uneasiness around
him when Kijin told them where they would be going. Too many shardsmen lost their lives in
those woods. Nonetheless, by the time Kijin was fnished, the MohdAthon were frenzied with
excitement.
They would break camp in the morning. The rest of the day was given to celebration
except for the captains, who were to meet with their DorAthon and learn what was expected of
them and their companies.
Laramis took Thytr aside, and they walked through camp toward the captains tents.
Instead of stopping, they continued through until they were free of the other shardsmen and
climbed the familiar slope. They did not speak until they were well away from everyone.
Thytr gritted his teeth to stave off anxiety. Kijin looks clear-minded today, Dor Laramis.
Yes. But that will change soon enough. He nodded back down the hill and a moment
later, Thytr located Kijin in a crowd with a mug in hand. Laramis said, Ill be expected to train
you for a couple hours, so we have plenty of time to talk about what will happen.
Id rather train.
Laramis chuckled. I would too, but youll need your wit and refexes to be fresh tonight.
As late as we trained last night, you could use rest more than last minute instruction.
Thytr was afraid he would say something like that. Well, perhaps you could tell me about
Kijin and how I might try to face him.
Laramis slung his pack to the ground and stretched his back. Hes fawless. Ive never
seen anyone, save Vanderhesche, match his skill. Thytr felt the blood drain from his face. He
wont be fawless tonight, Thytr. But hell be all you want to handle. If he can stand, hell be good
enough to take most every shardsman in the camp. Including some of the DorAthon.
Thytr did not know if Laramis was testing his resolve, trying to scare him, or
complimenting him. He pushed doubt from his mind, trusting his abilities. Ill wait until you tell
me the time is right.
It will have to be subtle.
Ill pay attention.
Laramis nodded and put a hand on Thytrs shoulder. Im sure you will. He arose and
gave Thytr a look that closed the discussion. Why dont we slip behind the hill and you can claim
a little rest.
Thytr would not admit how good the idea sounded, but gladly followed Laramis.
* * *
Thytr found little rest that afternoon. He stretched on his side to block out the glare of the
sun. He just could not fnd a comfortable position on the sand with Laramis nearby. Although
he knew he needed rest, his stomach kept churning and, before long, he rolled to his back and
sighed in frustration.
Why do the DorAthon let the MohdAthon challenge them when they have forbidden it
among themselves? The question had tickled Thytrs mind at odd times the previous week.
Laramis walked over and sat with his back to the sun. Thats a good question, Thytr.
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The easy answer is that MohdAthon did not exist when the Code was written, so the original
laws did not apply to them. But, when we gained the favor of the creators and were given the
blessings of immortality again, the fear of extinction dwindled.
If thats so, why not just let the MohdAthon challenge each other, then? Thytr glanced
over at Laramis, surprised that the older shardsman was answering his questions.
Have you ever seen lions eat after a kill, Thytr?
No. But Ive hunted them in the Rahdred Plains.
When a pride brings down a large animal, the biggest and strongest lions walk over to
the kill and eat their fll frst. Then the other lions take their turn. Its the order of life among the
pride.
I understand.
What keeps the pride strong is that if a Lion becomes weak, sick, or just plain old, then
younger, stronger lions challenge for control of the pride. That way, the fate of the pride is left to
the most powerful. The unft lion is replaced for the good of the many.
I guess Im not sure I understand. The shardsmen live forever. We dont get old or weak.
Thytr sat up.
We dont grow old, or weak of body, but even the most powerful shardsman can become
unft if he loses focus, or lets his mind wither. I think youve seen that. Laramis shook his head.
That just goes to show that the Code should be changed, the strongest DorAthon should
be allowed to challenge for control.
Our decision was made long ago. We chose to preserve the remnant of shardsmen.
Prophecy foretold of the day our numbers would swell if we abided the Code, and our obedience
has been rewarded.
So, we are the young lions? A chill of excitement rippled down Thytrs spine.
Yes. You are a lion, but only if you get a chance to be a lion, a chance to take control of the
pride.
What do you mean?
Laramis sifted sand through his fngers as he spoke. Without the promise of leading the
pride, you MohdAthon would be something other than lions its in our nature to want to lead.
Without the hope of leading the order of shardsmen, youd be hyenas. The older lions could swat
you away from the prey and rule the plains for a time, but in the end your numbers, strength,
and tenacity would overwhelm us.
Thytr nodded, understanding.
Laramis smiled. Id rather have you in the pride. He rose and brushed the sand off his
water skin. Its time to rejoin camp. Just dont get too caught up in the celebration.
No worries there.
They walked down to camp together.
* * *
Thytr drank a glass of spiced wine and ate a plate of food in the mid afternoon, but neither
helped calm his stomach. His normal confdence kept being invaded by thoughts that he was
making a mistake and that he risked too much.
A slap on his back startled him. It was Jerly. Ready for the challenge?
What? Thytr immediately feared that word of his plan had gotten out. That was
impossible.
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You ready to lead our company into battle? Jerlys smile twitched a little and he fumbled
his fngers together.
Thytr had chosen Jerly to be in his company near the end of selecting several nights
earlier. It was an act partly motivated by pity, because Jerly would not amount to much of a
soldier, and partly because he knew he could trust him. It was always good to keep men you
trusted nearby. Oh, yes. Well cut through the forest like a shard through a melon.
Jerly laughed and scooted away. Thytr spent much of the rest of the afternoon in his tent.
That would draw attention and curiosity, but before it grew to rumor or gossip, the camp would
know what he was up to. Late in the afternoon he came out feeling a little more rested. After
a painfully long period of revelry by his company, and back slapping and hand shaking, Thytr
found Laramis with two of the other DorAthon.
Thytr did not want to interrupt, but when Laramis saw him approach the older broke
away from the others, saying, My young captain must need help buckling his boots. Thytr even
shared in their laugh at his expense.
Laramis led him to the food table and plated up a handful of pickled beets. Get some. He
nodded at his plate.
I think Ill pass. Thytrs stomach gurgled.
Theyre delicious and good for you. I think you should try some. A fashing glare told
Thytr that Laramis was not making an idle suggestion.
Thytr wolfed down his plateful of beets and was surprised that they took a bit of the edge
off his nerves. His stomach still churned, but much slower.
Thytr saw the sun nearing the horizon. He looked at Laramis.
Laramis gave a partial nod.
Thytr had seen Kijin a half dozen or more times that afternoon, and each time his eyes
had been more red and his hand had always held a tankard. But as Thytr searched for the
general, he had trouble locating him. Panic quickened his pace, and he feared he would miss his
opportunity. What would he do then?
He pushed through camp and came back another way. Still no sign of the general. Then
the familiar bravado-saturated voice, slurred by drink, called out from the other side of a tent.
And then he climbed to the top of a rock in nothing but his small clothes. His knees knocked like
a fve year old girls.
Thytr smiled. He rounded the corner and found Kijin with his arm around Captain
Weldrig, who was leaning away from Kijin with each word. Thytr saw spittle dripping from
Kijins mouth and smelled spiced wine as he approached. Two of the black-cloaked kymers saw
Thytr and stepped up to greet him.
Well met, Thytr said. I must have a word with Dor Kijin. Thytr felt a popping in the
air and worried that they might use their talents to stop him. A cold fear fashed as thought
perhaps they could see into his mind.
At the mention of his name, Kijin looked up. Ah, Captain Thytr, come hear the ssstory of
General Vanderhesches demissse. The words were cheery, but thickly slurred.
Several days earlier, Thytr would have marched a week barefoot in the sand to hear Kijin
relate the famous tale himself. He shook his head. With the kymers eyeing him so closely, he
could not wait. Im sorry, Dor Kijin, but I have come to ask for your shard. It was an ancient
form of challenge. Thytr offered it as a token of honor to the legend. Weldrigs mouth fell agape.
Kijin looked up and cocked his head while focusing on Thytr. He looked at the sun nearly
setting. Planned this out, did you? Thytr smelled the foul odor of food and drink with each word
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Kijin spoke. Thought youd fnd an advantage in me thisss night, eh. Thought youd like a piece
of my legend. The kymers moved quickly to his sides and helped move him away from Thytr.
Get ready, boy! Ill ssskin you like a sssquirrel!
Weldrig walked away with a lack wits gape for an expression. Soon, the buzz spread like
a prairie fre in a windstorm. Thytr could hardly move as shardmen pressed around him. Most
accused him of being mad. A few wished him luck. Some called him vile names, but never when
they were next to him. Before long, he had pressed his way to the training arena. The place
where he had defeated Hartlin.
Thytr drew his shard and watched his hand twitch. Laramis had taught him a focusing
exercise that involved slow, steady breathing and picturing a succession of fghting stances in
his mind. It helped. He warned the shardsmen around him to give him space and they did. His
shard cut through the air with powerful arcs, dancing at his will, almost as quick as thought.
When he could feel sweat dampen his undertunic, he stopped and spent a few moments adjusting
his armor. Every time he let his mind wander, it meandered to Kijin. If he did not force his mind
to move away, a lump bulged in his throat. He forced himself to concentrate on his mundane
preparations. He could not afford to have a boot loosen.
Finally, a group of DorAthon pushed through the crowd like a cow through a wheat feld,
slow and deliberate. When they neared the arena, they pushed the MohdAthon back. From
the middle of the group, with Laramis at his side, strode Kijin. Well-worn black leather armor
gleamed in the failing light. Nicks and repaired panels bore witness of the battles Kijin had seen.
A half length Karbuchi Spear with a jagged tip poked over his shoulder, and a blackshard hung
at his side. The only part of Kijin that offered Thytr any hope was his eyes. They were red and
glossy and devoid of amusement.
Kijin walked close and in a voice only loud enough for Thytr to hear said, I hope you
like the desert, boy, cause we wont tote your body back to civilization. Youll spend the rest
of eternity under the sun, under the sand. At least there arent any worms in the desert. Just
scorpions, snakes, and jackels. But dont worry, Ill make sure your men bury you deep enough to
be safe from scavengers. Kijin drew his blade and quickly worked through a stretching routine.
The shard blurred in the air, but his fuidity was choked with lumps of inebriation.
Thytr could see the natural ability behind the movements. He was glad for the advantage
he had, and was certain his legend would not start on a tainted foundation.
Yet, he knew he was alone.
Laramis circled the perimeter and told several MohdAthon to back up. He walked past
Thytr without saying a word, or even acknowledging him with a glance.
Thtyr could hear Kijins name being chanted by the crowd. Kijin continued to swing his
blackshard in circles over his head.
Begin! said Laramis.
Thytr planted his feet, readying himself for a hard charge, like Hartlin had made. Kijin
stood across the ring with his back to Thytr and arms raised high in the air.
I have heard from the DorAthon that this MohdAthon is the best among you. Kijin
turned slowly, addressing the whole gathering. He has sparred with most of you and left you
bleeding and beaten. When Kijin fnally faced Thytr, Thytr was shocked to see the redness of
eyes and bleary expression almost completely washed away. Kijin continued, Tonight, he shall
feel the blade and taste his own blood. The shardsmen cheered.
Thytr glanced at Laramis, across the circle. He refused to believe that Kijin could have
sobered so completely, so soon. Thytr would press the advantage he had. Measuring his steps,
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he attacked. Blackshard held chest high, he worked through several stances that allowed him to
thrust at Kijin from defensible positions. It was like trying to poke a mosquito with a stick. Kijin
was not a large man, about Thytrs size, but he was incredibly fast and agile. The crowd roared
with each of Thytrs failed strikes.
Kijin slipped Thytrs blade to the side and pinned the MohdAthons arm. Laramis
promised youd make a match of it, boy. Dont disappoint your soldiers. He fung Thytr to the
ground and raised his shard. Thytr raised his blade to block and swept at Kijins legs. Kijin
sprung away like a jumping beetle, keeping his feet, but allowing Thytr the chance to spin up.
A few shardsmen chanted Thytrs name. Thytr thought he could hear Jerlys deep
voice, but it was all a bit of a blur. Kijin attacked. Thytr worked through a series of defensive
maneuvers, and saw the opening he needed. Kijins attacks came for the right side, leaving him
open for the counterstrike he had practiced with Laramis. He readied himself, absorbed Kijins
strike, and pivoted as hard and fast as he could. The modifed Crandle Drop. He knew the angle
he should downstrike before he fnished his pivot, and swung his shard at Kijins knee. But
Kijin was ready. He lunged into Thytrs body and drove him to the sand. Kijin kept Thytrs arms
pinned and leaned in close. Now that was an impressive move. Im glad Laramis told me to
expect it. I wouldnt want to fnd my blood on your shard.
Thytrs heart pounded in his chest. No! was all he could muster. He yelled in part out of
frustration for missing his opportunity, but more to chase away the thought of Laramis betrayal.
Kijins knee crushed between Thytrs legs, nearly blacking him out. Kijin rose and held
both arms high, while Thytr vomited on the ground. The pain made him curl into a ball, but he
forced himself to roll away and rise to his feet. He was taught when wounded to focus on his
opponent to keep his mind off the pain. It helped.
Kijin spoke to the crowd. The DorAthon told me that you have begged them for
instruction and that you were eager for me to arrive. From this night forward, until we reach the
Calhoun, I will instruct you. This shall be your frst lesson. He turned to Thytr.
Thytr forced the pain from his mind and charged. Careful not to overextend on any of his
strokes, he mounted a vicious attack. But Kijin moved as though he knew exactly where Thytrs
blade would be three moves in advance. Thytr could not hit him and could not force him into an
indefensible position. Twice, Thytr saw that he left himself open for a counter, but none came.
He came to an icy realization as he labored to maintain the attack. Kijin was playing with him.
Thytr could see the calm, yet focused expression on the generals face. Thytr would not hit him,
could not.
Thytr stepped back and glanced around, seeing the faces of a mass of shardsmen.
Cheering faces. Bodies pressed tightly around the circle, leaving no gaps, no escape. He smelled
blood and fear both his own. He could yield, but he would lose all honor, and his life would
be in Kijns hands. Kijin would very likely kill him anyway. His straying thoughts left him
vulnerable. Kijin ficked his blackshard at Thytrs face, cutting a gash into his forehead. Thytr
turned away and retreated a few steps. He mopped at the blood and sweat with the sleeve of his
armor. It stung his eyes and blurred his vision.
The crowd grew quiet, and Thytr could feel Kijin near him. His eyes were useless.
Thytr is a fne example to you. Kijin yelled. If you learn his dedication to the shard, our
army will sweep through the Freeland Nations. Thytr saw a blurry boot kick him in the chest.
He fell back. If you learn his aggression and desire to be the best, youll go far in the ranks of
leadership. Kijin kicked him in the side. If you learn to keep your mind as sharp as his, youll
outthink your opponents at most every turn. Thytr felt the sharp point of the blade slice into his
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side.
But, most importantly, if you want to survive to the end of time and deserve the rank of
shardsman, you must learn what he did not. Arrogant, unchecked ambition will earn you death.
Thytr tried to scramble away, but his legs would not support him. He tumbled back to the
ground and felt Kijins shard again.
It is better that one shardsman should die, even if he is the strongest captain among you,
to fx this lesson into your minds. As we prepare to go into war, there is one general over you.
If you follow orders and respect my authority, we will drink Polderian white wine in the Brasin
Hills as the leaders of the Freeland Nations swear fealty to our king. Thytrs death is thus
suffered for the good of the many.
Kijin leaned close and whispered, Go with honor, young shardsman. Thytr swung his
shard wildly, but hit only air. Then, a piercing pain ripped through his body, right where his
stomach met his chest. He fell backward and felt the blade leave his body. A thud sounded in his
ears, but he did not even feel himself hit the ground.
It was over. The coppery taste of blood flled his mouth, and he coughed. He heard
Laramis voice call out to the crowd, Do not forget this night, MohdAthon. You are shardsmen by
name and right, but you must never forget your roles. Let Thytrs pride and the death it brought
him serve as an example to you all. Be satisfed with the measure of honor you shall win in the
war we begin on the morrow. Be satisfed with the command we impart upon you.
Tears flled Thytr eyes as he heard Laramis speak. He wanted to think that he had been
close to having it all. He commanded the MohdAthon and almost made rank as undergeneral.
No, he was no closer to being second in command of the Southland Army than any blind stable
boy from Krentok. It was a lie, a betrayal. What did it matter anyway? Images blurred before
him. Faces ficked into his mind. His mother, his father, Lorissa Coornige, who he had left crying
to become a shardsman. Honor over life, he remember saying. Honor over love. He chuckled
and blood dribbled down his chin. He gave away everything for a chance at honor and glory.
Now all that he worked to gain dripped into the sand beneath him. It was hot, getting hotter.
All he wanted was a drink of cool water. There was some honor in death. He clung to the hollow
satisfaction that he died on the most famous shard in the Southlands. It was not satisfying, but
it was something.
Then, everything went black.
The End
Brendon Taylor is an attorney in Southeast Idaho and one of the founders of The Amberlin Group
and Deep Magic. Thytr is set in the world where his upcoming novel, The Stone of Despair, is set.
On writing fantasy, Brendon believes, The beauty of the fantasy world and its characters lie in
the mind of the author. It is his job to share that vision with the reader. He enjoys being a part of
Deep Magic and allowing dreams and visions to be shared by fans of the genre.
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Lucky you. Mayhap they will make you a nurse, as I am, said Gwyneth. Then,
considering, Actually, youll probably become a stable girl.
Ry-anne raised her headeyes immediately landing on Markooth, whose kind wink made
her smile. Youre drunk, Gwyn.
Do you think? And you Gwyneth pointed an unsteady fnger at her. You should not
even be taking the ale at all. I have to say Im rather surprised at you Markooth, for even letting
this one taste the liquor. Tut tut.
Oh for Grands sake, Gwyn. Hes not my PappyI can do what I like.
Markooth looked thoughtful. You know, maybe you shouldnt
Just try and stop me, Ry-anne said, voice croaky from the burning drink.
Just be wise with it.
Ry-anne fxed him with a stare.
Oh Gwynnie, wed better tread carefulI think I smell an argument in brewing here,
teased Davvy. Ry-anne punched his shoulder. Ow! Yes, I think it is safe to say that things are
getting rather rowdy. He rubbed his sore spot.
Gwyneth pushed a carpet of luxurious long hair back over her shoulders and leaned
against Davvy. Then maybe we should move ourselves out the way.
Davvy raised his eyebrows. He was not the only one. Markooths look was questioning, but
Ry-anne just shrugged. Gwyneth would certainly have said if she was sleeping with Davvy. She
told her everything else, whether Ry-anne liked it or not. Gwyneth whispered in Davvys ear and
he put his head in his hands, laughing.
Gwyn! Now you know we cant do that unless were partnered.
Lets partner then.
Oh sure, why ever not? Come on Gwyneth, I think Id better escort you back to your
Wing.
No! Dammit Davvy I am most serious! She tried to sit up straight. Ry-anne, come now
and perform the ceremony for us. Youre the only one thats all holy and innocent here. Right,
Markooth? Come on, speak it: Gwyneth, look upon the face of Davvy, your future Damn-the-
Grand, whats the rest?
Well let me know when you have it fgured, dear sister. Meanwhile, Im going for a swim,
Ry-anne said and set down her mug. She pushed herself upright and brushed soil off her robe.
Youre seriously thinking of taking a swim in the lake? Markooth asked. Gwyneth had
positioned herself on Davvys knee, who was mildly protesting this forwardness.
Ry-anne put her hands on her hips. Whats the matter, too cold for you?
Yes! Itll be freezing!
So. You coming or what? Or are you as yellow as I always thought you were, O privileged
high-born? Ist thou not allowed to get ones precious feet wet?
Right! Markooth pounced.
Ry-anne squealed and ran round the other side of the lake, ferns whispering as she dived
through them. Markooth chased her into the shadowy embrace of a group of cider trees. They
smelled of ale and made the air feel clammy. Ry-anne hid behind one, holding her breath and
trying to sense where Markooth was. The slippery tree bark soaked into her robe and stained it
like oil. Mammy Gamine would pop a clog when she saw it.
Undergrowth cracked as Markooths sandals crushed it. Close. Aha! A hand grabbed her
wrist and Ry-anne yelped. She darted away from him and Markooth lost his grip on her. She
emerged by the lake and stopped hastily, sensing that the ground in front was unsteady. But
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Markooth came rushing up behind, bumping her forward. She screamed, piercing the blanket of
night quiet and hunted furiously for Markooth. For anything to cling to. She snatched a handful
of his robe but the earth beneath was crumbling. It was inevitable. She crashed backwards into
the water and Markooth came tumbling after, headfrst. Water went up her nose and Markooths
body shoved her down deeper into the water. She was deaf awhile until she struggled up to the
surface, coughing and spluttering, with Markooths help.
She shivered loudly, teeth chattering. The cold shock had been nastier than shed expected.
You alright? He looked amused, hair plastered to his forehead.
Ry-anne shook off his grasp, the movement forcing her deeper out. Still, she managed
to give his head a good whack. Water droplets few upwards. You dumb horse! That was your
fault!
Markooth pushed the water out of his eyes and raked back his hair so it stuck up all
pointy. My fault? You were the one who got me chasing you in the frst place!
Ry-anne tilted onto her stomach and paddled towards the side, robe getting tangled in her
legs. She landed next to Markooth and clutched the earth as he did. Perhaps that is so. But I did
not ask you to push me in, did I?
There was laughter. I see you got your swim after all. Gwyneth called.
Oh yes, why Im just fne! Ry-anne shouted back. Thanks kindly for your concern.
Nobody answered, but Ry-anne heard giggling and then the smooching sounds of more
kissing. She shook her head. Markooth was smiling indulgently. And what do you want?
It was an accident, Ry.
Course it was. Still half deaf in one ear, she tipped her head to one side and tried to
shake the water loose. It trickled out all warm. Ry-anne massaged that ear and then smoothed
back her soaking hair.
If you dont stop sulking like a babby then Ill dunk you again.
Like damn you will!
Oh, wont I? Go on, Ill give you a head start. His golden eyes still glinted bright even in
the dark.
You wouldnt dare!
Threetwo
Ry-anne launched off on her back, then spun quickly around and front-crawled towards
the opposite side of the lake. Markooth caught up easily but she never gave in without a fght.
She kicked him offway below where she should haveand heard him double up and groan.
Eventually he cheated and a strong force twisted her onto her back and yanked her through the
oil-black water. Waves roared up either side and she choked on water. Markooths arms grasped
her about her waist. His mentals held them both afoat.
Got you.
Got me choking!
Getting soft now are we? Sweet Grand, I pray youre not going to go all girly like
Gwyneth.
For some reason that made her feel good. When normally she would have struggled out
of his arms and punched him thoroughly, she stayed right where she was. Her heart raced as
fast as the crickets were shrilling when she realized that Markooth did not move away either.
They had never been this close before, with his whole body pressed against hers. Oh theyd
had plenty of play fghts before and plenty of real ones, too. But that was contact without
intent as Immediates and Judiciary would phrase it. This wasnt. This was where they could
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get in trouble. She could feel his breath, quickened by the breathtaking cold water, as it puffed
repetitively against her neck. Water dripped from the end of his nose and plinked onto an
exposed shoulder, where her robe had slightly slipped off.
Filthy cheat, she whispered.
He leaned in to speak. Me a cheat? I seem to remember a certain somebody kicking me in
a particularly sensitive area.
It was amazing that she could blush in the freezing cold. Thank the Grand Markooth
couldnt see. She shrugged, a slower action than usual in the water. It was an accident.
He laughed and she felt his body shake. Ry-anne stayed frozen. Silence dragged and there
seemed nothing more to say. No more reason to stay like this. You must be freezing, Markooth
said at last. Youd better go to warm yourself by the fre or youll catch a chill.
They dragged themselves out of the water that no longer seemed as cold as it had when
they accidentally fell in. But it was a different matter when they were out of the water. Ry-anne
shuddered and rushed to the fre. Markooth followed.
Gwyneth raised her head from a kiss and looked at Ry-anne, who was trying to squeeze
the water from her robe. I do hope you Pair were not breaking the rules of the House down
there.
Markooth knelt down and they glanced at each other quickly. He frowned. Dont be
ridiculous. Ry-anne is nothing more than a child. I would never even consider it.
Gwyneth smiled and lay on Davvys chest, who was falling asleep. His freckled cheeks
were crimson from the ale and the fre. And Gwyneth too, most likely.
Markooth purposely avoided Ry-annes gaze. So she sulked and continued to dry her
robe. Long after Markooth had fallen to sleep, when her brooding thoughts eventually allowed
slumber, Ry-anne was still sore.
* * *
She screamed till her throat was raw and swam violently out of the dream before she
drowned. Markooth shook hershe batted him away.
Ry-anne! Ry-anne wake up!
At last, she came out of the suffocating darkness into the blessed light of the dawn.
Holy Grand, Ry. We dont need the bells to wake us with you around, do we?
Gwyneths voice.
Better now? You gave us quite a fright you know. Markooth has been trying to wake you
for an age, said Davvy.
Sorry. Badbad dream.
Davvy grinned and went away with Gwyneth, who was tugging at his arm and wanting
him to carry the ale jug. Only Markooth remained. He crouched close. Same one?
Ry-anne sighed and rubbed her eyes. Her whole body ached from sleeping on uneven
ground and her nose felt stuffy. She prayed she hadnt caught a chill, though it was likely.
Mm, she said. Same sort of thing anyway. Her voice cracked and she reached
instinctively for the ale mug. Ugh! Its stale taste was even worse than last eve.
Do you want to talk it over?
She shook her head and rose to a sitting position with diffculty. Her robe was a mess, all
crumpled and creased and stained a slight off-yellow from the lake water. No. She looked at
him sharply. And dont go looking either.
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I wont! He seemed offended.
Ill know if you do.
For the sake of Glandor, I wont. Not if you dont want me to.
Ry-anne nodded and picked up her mug. She threw its contents on the grass with a splash
and got up to scoop some water from the lake. Dont you have to hurry? Its your frst morn now
is it not? She took a long, cool drink. She chucked away the rest of the water and tentatively
splashed her face, washing away the dregs of the dream and bringing her fully into reality. She
dried her face roughly with the hem of her robe.
Aye. But I ought to get cleaned up frst. Will I see you this eve?
Ry-anne got up from the bank of the lake and turned to face him, at the same time raking
fngers through the knots in her wild waves. Certainly. Ive a spell test to revise for, but Ill be
along after.
No. Ill meet you outside your wing with Grey and well go riding. We could ride out to
Pantherea town and see some of the festival or
Ry-anne shook her head, familiar irritation errupting. Im coming up to your house,
MarkoothIm not afraid of him, even if you are.
Markooth looked stung and Ry-anne instantly regretted her outburst. But she wouldnt
take it back. They both knew that. Fine. If thats what you want. He strode off angrily.
Yellow idiot, she muttered to herself as he waved bye to Gwyneth and Davvy, who were
busy collecting up the mugs. Yet it was Kelthro she was really angry at. And it was about time
somebody taught him a lesson.
* * *
Markooth checked that his robe was tied tight enough, his cutter in his thigh boot, his
hefty gold sword safely snug in its brown leather hilt, and that he had the mettle to do his
allocated task. He had already met with the Grand once before, when he was thirteen, and that
meeting had left him breathless. But now he would be one of her Personal guards for the rest of
his life. It was inconceivable. Would he ever get used to feeling that power streaking off her, so
tangible it was stifing? Yet it was true that he had earned this post. He had always excelled in
spell class and his mentals were superb, well above average in fact, and his natural balance and
nimble refexes could not be taught.
Still, with one sweaty hand pressed to the mahogany doors of the North Wing entrance
and his head pressed against the cool wood, Markooth could not help but worry that his
inadequacies might endanger the Grand. But, summoning his nerve, Markooth stood up straight
and rapped on the wood; knock knockknock-kn-kn-knock-knock-knock. The secret code.
Identify yourself!
Markooth of Glandor, come to serve the Grand.
Council Password!
Markooth frowned. He rifed through memories of his orientation Seasons. This should
have been ingrained in him dammit! Right now, the Guards inside would be drawing their
weapons. El landurro des Glandor a crucia del Noblucia, he rushed in the Ancient language.
Glandor protect the Grand.
There was a pause and Markooth prayed hed remembered correctly. For a beat of his
racing heart the clunk-thump-clunk of heavy metal bolts being slid back sounded like sword
metal clanging against a hilt. But the door fell away soundlessly and was replaced by a burly
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man of forid complexion who was almost as wide as the double doors themselves. Except
Markooth looked down upon the mans nest of rust-colored hairhe was so short.
One great paw dragged him inside before the pastel sunlight was bolted out, putting them
in virtual darkness, save for the sporadic torches. Get in, you oafwhat are you trying to do?
Let the doors open long enough so the crows can nest?
Ahno. No sir, that was not
Sir? Sir? Sir is what you call your Pappies. Sir is what you call your schoolroom teacher.
DoIlooklikeeitheroneoftheprevious?
Nosir.
Commander! You end every sentence with Commander around here is that understood?
Yes, sCommander.
A displeased sigh Follow me conscript. Small tree trunk legs pounded up the staircase.
Markooth hastily followed, having to force himself slow enough so as he wouldnt trip over the
Commander.
Yes Commander.
Its Aye, Commander when a direct order is given. Remember that. Now, listen to what I
have to say as though your puny life depended on itbecause it does.
Aye Commander. Was that right?
This is your induction and I will say it only once. You are the best turnip in the feld, the
pick of the harvest. Put succinctly, you are our elite. Out of all the rest who have trained, you
have been chosen. The Commander barked as they marched up the endless, spiraling staircase.
He paused.
Yes sir, Markooth said quickly, because something seemed expected.
The Commander went on. You, conscript, have been selected to protect the Grand of great
Glandor, our municipal God. There is no greater honor and no harder, more consuming challenge
than the task set before you. Other than being the blessed Grand herselfDestiny preserve her,
he kissed his fst and pushed it hard against his breast. Markooth followed suit. You will protect
the Grand in every capacity available to you; with your physical strength, your mental talent and
your spell casting skill. Clear?
Yes sir.
The Commander stopped abruptly, his boots clumping against the stair. Markooth braked
hastily. A bit more effort, conscript. I hope you do not intend to serve our beloved Grand
Another kiss from lips to breast. With the same kind of lackluster attitude you are displaying at
present.
Yes SirNo Sir!
Hm. The Commander started upwards again.
Markooth glanced downwards and saw that they had climbed a dizzying height already.
Strange, he hadnt remembered so many stairs the last time he was here. But that was fve
seasons gone, he reminded himself.
And if you are thinking, I can do this, then follow me onwards. But if you are thinking,
blast but this sounds too diffcultthen hot horse hooey! The Commander spun around and his
face glowed devil red with anger. He twisted back and kept walking. Because the Fates have
ascribed this duty to your person, upon the offcial request of Destiny which, I might add, the
Grand has full faith in. He made another Sign of Faith.
Yes Sir!
Another thing, said the Commander. You now hereby pledge your life to the Grand, who
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has given up her own to safeguard all ours. This is your Allocation till you die, whichwell, let
me just say I wouldnt plan a partnership. He laughed as the stairs straightened out and they
came to another Guardtall and silver-haired, a fair man in many respects it seemedwaiting
patiently before a nameless door. Markooth wagered that the Grand would be behind that.
One fnal thing said the ginger Commander, coming to rest before the Guard. He
dipped one knee and pressed his right fst to his breast before rising again to push their fsts
against each others in greeting.
Yes sir?
Meet your Commander. He nodded to the grey-haired Guard with his wise, almond-
shaped eyes and knowing half-smile. His casual posture would strike an uninitiated as off-guard.
But Markooth noticed that each hand lay on a weapon; the right on a gleaming gold sword hilt
and the left behind his back feeling a vicious, pointed cutter.
Markooth raised his eyebrows. He foundered. ButI thought He looked to the rusty-
haired Guard who, oddly, avoided his gaze and wandered down the corridor. His eyes met with
the other Guards.
The man smiled benevolently. Dont mark Indo. We just like to see whether you will
unquestionably follow orders. His eyes smiled this time, crinkling kindly. And it seems that you
can. But Indo is a good man and he is also your superior. You will address him as Captain Indo,
whereas I am Commander Devenich, and you will always obey him. Is that understood Conscript
Markooth?
Yes sir. Of course, sir.
Good. Now take up position at my side and be prepared.
Aye sir. Markooth stood where he was told and folded his arms behind his back.
Never leave your weapons unprotected, Devenich murmured. Markooth glanced at him
and a why formed in his mind.
Why? Devenich asked. His grey eyes looked past Markooth and nodded at something.
Markooth turned to see what it was.
Sweet Grand! Indo was possessed. Features grossly contorted, snarling, demonized, he
hurtled down the corridor intent on Markooths blood. Markooth sought his sword. Gone. Damn
it! The demon Indo was inches away and its insidious, base cold sank into Markooths spirit.
He benthand darted for his cutter. Gone too. Blazes. He had no choice. Gathering his
concentration, he had but a blink to think. This wasnt like the practices at all. This was kill or
The demon hit with deafening force. Hot pain tortured his insides as the demon rummaged
for his soul. Without respect.
Markooth doubled over and his eyes started to water. Evil cold killed his mortality, whilst
searing pain singed his insides, hurting what was left that was not cold and could feel. Silver
fashed wicked in the dull, angry red torchlight and Markooth realized that the demon had
snatched his own weapons. He felt such a fool.
A claw lifted high and the blade, raised over his own head, looked sharper than ever. It
shot down, on track to slit between his wide eyes. Markooth hurriedly constructed temporary
armor. The blade bounced harmlesslybut a breath from his face. He felt a whisper of air and a
prod as the sword tried to break his seal. It could not. But it drew back for a second attack. The
armor wouldnt last.
The blade descended. It blazed down to stick him through, so the demon could devour
his spirit without challenge. Markooth summoned strength and blew it back at the demon. The
shock knocked it fying. It thudded against the corridor wall. But it did not stop. In one pulse
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beat the demon was back againin the air and shooting towards him like a murderous arrow.
Great Grand! Markooths mind whirred. Was this still Indo? How could he terminate this
threat without slaying Indo himself? But self-preservation drove him to summon his mentals.
Almost without thinking, his mind formed a deadly spear. It thrustnearly too late. The demon
was nearly on him again, his blade pointing at him like a joust. Markooth tensed. Indo was
impaled upon the mental lance.
Ugh! Indo gurgled. The invisible weapon went right through the demons stomach. And
Indo hung in the air. Black blood dripped like viscous tar from the wound and from his mouth.
Plopping onto the foor it hissed, charring the wood.
Exhausted, Markooth dropped to the ground with a rattling thud. He was bewildered,
trying to soak up what had just happened so he could make sense of it. My Grand, what have I
done?
Lesson Two. Always know where your weapons are. An enemy will always try to disarm
youphysically and mentally. Congratulations on your promotion. You are now Captain.
The gentle voice belonged to Devenich.
Markooth looked up sharply to see that the Commander was stood in the same relaxed
position.
Sir?
Devenich shifted his weight, without ever taking his hands from his weapons. Indo was
possessed, conscript. He was a threat to the Grand and you annulled that. Well done.
Devenichs words made Markooths head ache. Butbut what do we do with him now sir?
I mean, he was a man andwell what by Grand do we tell his Immediates?
We do not have to tell them anything.
Sirwhat? But Markooth looked back to Indo and the body seemed to ficker.
The image dissolved and was soon no more. All that remained was the sticky black ooze and
Markooths scattered weapons.
Just then, footsteps thudded up from down the corridor where Indo had frst disappeared.
He looked perfectly normal and, most importantly, he was defnitely not dead. Markooth tensed,
worried this was another trick. Mentally, he dragged his weapons up off the foor and back to
him.
Easy. Devenich said. Lesson three: be able to disregard questionable orders when
necessary. And lessons four and fvewe are strapped for time this mornbe aware that things
are not always as they seem. In other words boy, be on your toes. Finally, although the Grand
preserves this perfect land for our enjoyment, there are forces outside our dimension ever
threatening to ruin her work. It is your job to aid the Great Grand in her Destiny and protect her
from these little pestssuch as we have just shown youso that she can remain concerned with
shielding Glandor from the greater evil that lurks beyond.
Indo grinned.
Any questions, conscript? Devenitch asked.
No sir.
That was the right answer, he said.
Except Markooth did have questionsafter an astonishing frst morn, just how many
more lessons do they have planned? And how will I know when a demon or an evil is real and
not just another lesson? He felt Devenich glance his way. The man allowed himself a bubble of
amusement.
Im going to do a walk round, Indo said. Make sure theres no buggars trying to sneak
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in through the defenses. Devenich inclined his head and Indo went back towards the stairs.
The Commander turned his attentions to Markooth. After this morn, you will never look
at anything the same again. You will always be wondering what is mortal, what is demon, what
is real and what is illusion.
I believe I will never take anything for granted again.
Good. This was the purpose of the lessonsto make you suspicious and wary and,
basically, a paranoid wreck. Youll never stop hunting for the truth of things Markooth. Youll sort
information twice, thricefour times ove, and Ill warrant you still wont be satisfed. But youll
be one damn fne Guard. And theres no greater honor I can think of.
Nor I, si
Spook south south west the main door. Restless too. Somebody get over here. Fast! The
thought came from Indo.
Go Markooth. I must stay and Guard the Grand, Devenich urged mentally.
Markooth hurried off. And it all started again.
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TWO
R
y-anne jogged the whole way to Markooths house. She couldnt help the smile that spread
when she passed the lake and remembered the touch of Markooths body. The East Wing was
all commotion and emotion. Pappy Jenn and Mammy Helene had just announced that they were
expecting another babby. Wonder how long that one will last, Ry-anne wondered and instantly
felt ashamed. She slunk out of the celebrations early, giving Pappy Jenn and Mammy Helene the
expected awkward embraces.
Pappy Malluns voice rang in her ears before the East Wing door slammed shut,
Wonderful newsno of course this babby will never replace Kynashe will always be precious
in your heart
She stood outside the House a moment, hoping no Family were around to try and extract
some easy conversation. It was the anniversary of Kynas death soon. Somehow, another babby
just didnt seem right. She leaned her head back against the cool, sand brick. Its cool texture was
refreshing, and she drew in a long, fresh breath of air. The frost of Chill Period was gone, and it
was obvious that Warm Period had arrived. Soon it would be Hot Period, the longest of them all,
the time when Kyna
It was still hard to think about. So she pushed off from the wall and ran the familiar
path to Markoothsdespite all the protestations he had forbidding her to come to his house.
Unfamiliar voices. Ry-anne opened the meal room door and stepped inside. The room was full
of men. Kelthro, Markooth, and a funny small ginger man who seemed strong as a horse. Deep,
bass laughter rumbled and they all held bowls of ale. Then they saw Ry-anne and all was quiet.
Ry-anne I told you Markooth broke off as the ginger man looked up enquiringly. Ah
Indo, this is Ry-anne.
Well its nice to meet you, Ry-anne. Your sister? he asked Markooth.
Ry-annes mouth gaped. She squinted at Markooth. You better had tell him Im your Pair,
she thought, but refrained from transmitting it mentally to see what he would do. Kelthros
glance was cold, as if he could wish her away with ill thoughts. She glowered at him. After hed
looked away though.
No, no. Shes my Pair. He left it at that.
Indos eyebrows raised, probably thinking all the lewd things shed found out people
visualized when they heard they were Pairs. Oh. I see.
Markooth looked uncomfortable. Do you want to go in until Im through chatting? he
asked, indicating the room behind him.
No. Ry-anne folded her arms. Kelthro scowled, obviously wishing that she would burst
into fames. His anger licked her, even from across the room.
Ill just go and check on Cate, he said to Markooth, playing nice and charming in front of
his guest. If you will excuse me, sir Indo. It was marvelous to meet your acquaintance.
And you, Sir Kelthro. We will meet another time I warrant.
Kelthro bowed his head respectfully.
Ry-anne knew that Kelthro was only ducking out of the room because she was in it. And
that he was leaving before his anger would erupt all over his guest and spoil his reputation.
Shame he didnt practice such self-control when there was nobody but Immediates about, she
thought. Kelthro moved to place his unfnished bowl of ale in the wash basin.
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Let me get that, Ry-anne said and took it from him.
Kelthro frowned a storm down upon her but let her take his bowl before disappearing,
nodding a composed goodbye to Indo. Ry-anne quickly ran her fnger around the rim and wiped it
on her robes neckline before dropping the dish aside the wash basin.
How come I havent seen you around before? Ry-anne asked Indo. Are you Family?
Why yes, I am. My Immediates live in the West Wing, but I have alternative
accommodations nowyou see Im a Guard to the Grand, he said, pronouncing his words slowly
and smiling a fake smile that people did for dumb babbies.
Oh. Ry-anne looked away. Markooth, can we go to Pantherea yet? Im starving.
Markooth looked from Ry-anne to Indo and back again. He shifted his weight and cleared
his throat. You know, Im just having a conversation if you wouldnt mind waiting, he said,
trying to sound gentle.
But Ry-anne heard, Look Im talking to somebody important, and youre embarrassing me
in front of my wonderful, red, adult friend so just git. She tried not to fush and put all her energy
into staring at Markooth, to make him feel more uncomfortable. Indo cleared his throat and Ry-
anne wondered whether she should do it too, just to make everybody even more uneasy.
So Ry-anne, have you been allocated yet?
Ry-anne opened her mouth to speak but Markooth didnt give her the chance. Actually,
shes being allocated in three eves. Arent you, Ry-anne?
She didnt answer.
Oh, I see. Indo said. Any idea what your path will be? What would you like?
She shrugged, sensing Indo look at Markooth, who swallowed and tried to encourage her
with his eyes to be more polite. Ry-anne?
She huffed. Oh for Grands sake, and slammed out of the meal room door. Markooth
would come after her, right? Tell her to come back inside and say that he hadnt meant to make
her feel stupid and unwanted and babbyish andhe didnt come. Ry-anne stalked off to the lake,
her teeth gritted, getting angry at how her anger dissolved with each blasted step. She almost
saw the situation from Markooths point of view but was too stubborn to let anything as crazy as
that become reality and tried to stay mad.
What the demons do you want?
The fgure in black crouched by the lake under the moonlight, lying in wait for her.
Ry-anne screamed.
Holy Grand! Theres no need to deafen me, girl!
It was only Lefus, alone by the black water. On second thought, that was bad enough. With
his dark-hair, darker soul and black eyes, Lefus was the complete antithesis of sweet-natured,
blonde, golden-eyed Markooth. And he made Ry-anne feel funny.
What are you doing here anyway? she blurted.
Lefus cast her an indulgent look. I shall allow you a moment to retract that comment
when you realize how stupid it sounds.
Huh?
Well what are you doing here, young Maiden? Isnt it far past your bedtime? Its none of
your concern what Im doing here.
Ry-annes hands indignantly went to her hips. Shut up and get yourself lost.
Get yourself lost, child. This is a public lakeI have every right to be here.
She sighed, glaring death at Lefus unmovable fgure. But he wasnt even looking. He
would go on sitting, right there in her spot, regardless of whether she went away or not.
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Whats troubling the ice maiden? Did you and lover brother have a spat?
I ought to push you in that lake and drown you, she growled. Lefus looked as though she
had struck him.
He stood up and towered over her, seeming to blot out the moons. Lefus was tall, taller
even than Markooth, and where Markooth was lithe and lean, Lefus was all stocky muscle. She
tried to meet his eye but those deep, black pits were mires of something unmentionableand
they didnt permit trespassers.
Ry-anne was sure Lefus was on the verge of exploding. The something in him that was
caged was bursting to be taken out on someone. But he tamed his anger, and when it became
clear he wasnt going to speak, she told him to get out of the way.
You say something, babby? Back was the amused stare and that half-curl, half-snarl of
his mouth that he called a smile.
Get out my way, she said meekly, eyes glued to the grass that her sandals were
squashing.
Oh well, seeing as you asked it so politely of me. He stepped aside.
Exasperated and more than a little unnerved, Ry-anne turned her back and started away
from the lake. Oh, dont go on my account, he whispered, his deep voice slithering up her spine
and creeping into her ears.
Youre pathetic, she spat, not bothering to turn back.
Youll tell on me to your lover Ill warrant, he taunted. Ry-annes ears burned. She and
Markooth were notnot yetit wasnt allowed and they werent really likethatyet. Sure,
quick mental kisses were just about legal, but Ry-anne knew that their age gap prevented
Markooth from doing even that. Whether he felt like doing it, it was hard to tell. Sometimes he
would look at her all funny and conficted. Then he would get angry and walk away like she was
diseased. And then he would pound his fst against a wall when he thought she wasnt sensing
him. Except she always felt it when he hurt, physically or otherwise. So did he think of her as a
lover? He kept that part of himself shielded good and bottled up tight, which took a lot of energy.
But no, he never let that one out, no matter how much or how sneakily she delved.
I bet you six donkeys, four and a half cows testicles and Greys heart that you tell on me!
Lefus yelled.
Oh shut up, Ry-anne whispered and hurried away. There were more important things to
be getting on with this eve.
* * *

The doors in her section of East Wing were all closed. Ry-anne could hear people chatting
behind Pappy Jenns door, the clink of goblets and the bubble of laughter. Ry-anne crept past
and went to her own room. Gwyneths door drifted open and she staggered out, draping her arms
around Ry-anne, who nearly toppled under the weight.
Gwyn! Whats the matter with youget off me!
Gwyneth laughed out of her nose. The hot air tickled Ry-annes neck, where Gwyneths
head lay. Not much Ry, not too much.
Uck! Youve been taking the ale again, havent you?
Gwyneth raised her head and grinned. One of her top teeth caught her bottom lip and
stuck there, so that when she closed her mouth it still showed, making her look gormless.
By the Grand, Gwyn. This is too much. Why are you hurting yourself like this? With one
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arm round Gwyneths waist and one around her shoulder, Ry-anne hauled her back to chambers
before Mammy Gamine could get a look.
She dropped Gwyneth down on the bed, unable to do it lightly, for Gwyneth
leaned her entire weight on Ry-anne. The mattress bounced a couple of times before she
was still. Ry-anne looked at her elder sister. For the frst time she really saw her. Her blonde
hair was sprawled on the bed just as she wasevery which waybut it was darker than it
used to be because of the grease. Ry-anne sniffed. Grand! When was the last time Gwyneth had
washed? She sighed. Gwyneths pale cheeks were unusually fushed from the ale and she giggled
to herself, though her eyes were shut. Ry-anne somehow teased the sheets out from under her
sister and spread them over the top.
Mammy Huln. Mee Huln wntdsposed to
Whats that Gwyn? What are you trying to say?
Gwyneth moaned and rubbed her nose with one loose hand. Sposed to go wiv Keen dat
day.
You were supposed to go with Kyna?
Gwyneth nodded sleepily.
What day?
That day! The face was imploring even though her eyes were still tight shut. She settled.
But sneaked off to the roserose gardn wiv DavvDavvDavvy.
Ry-anne inhaled. Exhaled. Oh Gwyneth, she thought and gazed on her wretched sister.
You never told me. There wasnt she swallowed with diffculty as the old pain started to
tighten her throat. There wasnt anything you could have done, Gwyn. Even if you had have
been there.
But shuddve bn there. Sposed tve been. Shuddve. Better mentalsn you.
Ry-anne knelt by the bedside and took her hand. Gwyneth threw her gesture away and
rolled onto her side. Gwyn.
Shuddve been there! she cried and a sob caught her throat. Gettout!
Gwyneth, dont be
Out! Want tbe alone! She tossed a pillow. It missed completely, but Ry-anne escaped
from the room before anything else was thrown.
Ry-anne closed the door against the memories and leaned back against it briefy. She
shook her head clear and went to her own bed and sat heavily, thinking awhile before reaching
underneath to take out a small spell chest. First, she felt around for Markooth, to see whether he
was concentrating on her at all. But he didnt appear to be. She got the impression that he was in
the barn with Grey.
Quickly, Ry-anne took out a little wooden bowl from the chest and then used a razor shell
she had stolen from class to scrape her robe where she had wiped Kelthros spit. There was
nothing to see on the shell, but she knew it was there and it was the casters intent that was the
most important thing. Like if the caster said a rose petal stood for love then it would be so. But
this spell was not designed to bring love. Quite the opposite in fact.
Ry-anne transferred the long razor shell, which looked more like a vicious claw, to her left
hand and poured a dot of water from a tiny, stoppered jar. Just water, nothing else. Then she
shook the shell in the water to free it of any residue and carefully broke the end of it, which could
not be used for scraping again, since it would be contaminated.
Her heart sped up and she started to have second thoughts. But she shoved the doubts
away. No. It was right. She crushed the piece of shell that she had broken off and brushed the
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fragments into the water. After packing the rest of the box away back under the bed, Ry-anne sat
up straight, ready to speak the spell.
Las intencia del incantacia ester; Kelthro den Glandor ya del mucuso den Kelthro del
profrer ester. This spell is for Kelthro of Glandor and his mucus is the proof of this. Ry-anne
unstopped the water jar again and held it ready. Her heart thudded, and she tried to stop her
hands from shaking. Was this wrong?
Porra eccha mallia serr meturo surro unia notra, serr resuvoiraire trioa surro serrseem,
ya donc esteraire a del tempheuria ester aquaya fnisio. For each hurt he inficts on another, so
will he receive it threefold upon himself until this water runs dry. Then Ry-anne lowered the
water jar and let it trickle into the wooden bowl, coloring it darker as it reached the top and her
water jar emptied.
Ya serr esteraire, ya serr esteraire, ya serr esteraire. And so will it be, and so will it be,
and so will it be. She lay a cloth over the bowl and placed it on her dresser beside the bed, where
the sun would warm it in the morn times. It wouldnt last longtwo days at most given the
position of the waterbut if Kelthro did hurt Markooth, then he would only be hurting himself.
Next, Ry-anne peeled off her robe and dumped it on the foor, too tired to pick it up properly. She
had her best nights sleep for seasons, except for the usual nightmare.
* * *
Ry-anne! What by Grand did you do!
The mental woke her before the bells and dragged her upright immediately. Her internal
clock told her that it was still dark outside, though not as dark as in the heart of the night.
Look at this!
Image of Kelthro. Writhing in agony by the barn. Face purple and bumpy. Lip split and
bleeding.
Well? Markooth sent a scouring anger accompanying his question. What have you to say
or would you rather I informed the Judiciary?
Ry-anne sent out calmness. He deserved it, she half-thought, but transmitted; Dont be
madIm sorry.
I heard that! Deserved it, did he? Just wait until
Intense hate lashed out at him. Until what? You lay a hand on me Markooth and Ill
Markooth trickled the feeling of tranquility into Ry-annes mind. I would never hurt you,
but I just do not understand why you would do such a thing. She could tell he was still furious.
Because Im sick of him! Always beating youand for no reason!
He does have reasons
Like what? Surprise me!
She felt his hesitation. I cannot. And then came the old, familiar sadness that she could
never fgure out.
Well that makes a change. You keep yourself so closed off these days.
I protect you.
You shun our Pairing.
Stuff and nonsenseand you know it.
Ry-anne finched as Markooths mind wandered. Her own head fashed with second
hand imagesthe lake. The water. Their bodiesand his arms around her. Her hair smells of
strawberry. Then came the anger.
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What theMarkooth, what was that all about? What is this anger you have towards me?
It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Markooth projected tenderness.
Well then
Just collapse the spell, Ry-anne. My fathers in agony, and dont say you dont care. Youre
not that heartless.
I am.
Stop it. Collapse it right nowwhat did you use? Water or candles?
Ry-anne was reluctant. Water.
Then tip it away and Ill bring up a healing spell.
Does hedoes he know it was me that cast it? Not that I care.
She felt Markooths exasperation. He doesnt know for defnite, though Im sure he could
guessand no, I wont tell him.
I dont care if he does know it was me. Tell him if you like.
I will then, Markooth sent.
Fine.
Fine.
There was silence. And then, Well go to Pantherea this eve, if you like. I havent had the
opportunity to speak to you about my frst morn in the North Wing.
Mm, whatever.
Just tip the water away and that will relieve some of his symptoms to start with. To soften
the instruction, he fltered in warmth and lit up her aura with heat. Bye.
See you this coming eve then? I have my allocation robe ftting frst though.
Of course. The warmth of his presence lingered long after he was gone.
Ry-anne stretched up and pulled back the window doors and then yanked the cord to open
her window slats. She reached over to the dresser, picked up the spell bowl and chucked the
water out of the window before snuggling up back in bed.
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THREE
P
antherea town was alive. There were fame throwers, torch jugglers and fute players. The
smell of roasting chicken wafted towards Ry-anne as she and Markooth came to an open fre
on the street side. Pantherea town was always very busy, but this eve was the fnal day of the
welcome to Warm Period Festival, and the square was literally jammed.
Are you hungry? Markooth asked over the roar of laughter and music. Drums started up.
Ry-anne patted her stomach. Always.
Two please, sir, Markooth said to the vendor who gave him two chicken breasts in one
linen napkin. He asked for a spare napkin before handing over the trades.
That was expensive, wasnt it? Ry-anne said when they edged away, trying not to push
into people. The vendor poked some more meat on the skewer above his small fre.
But Ill bet its worth it, said Markooth as handed Ry-anne a portion.
She bit through the skin into soft, hot chicken, favored with butter and garlic. Juices ran
down her chin. Oops, she dabbed them away, chewing. Mm. Thats gorgeous.
He smiled, and there again was that annoyingly handsome face. The sparkle in those
gentle, golden eyes and that easy grin. Ry-anne held back the urge to wipe chicken grease from
his lips. Holy Grand I sound like Mammy Gamine! It was hardly a romantic thought to be having
was it?
Markooth looked away, a little embarrassed, and Ry-anne fushed tomato. She was letting
her feelings slip again. Ry-anne felt Markooths spirit moving away to allow her some space.
She was torn between wanting to apologize for those thoughts and knowing that it would just
embarrass the both of them even more.
There was an awkward silencethere seemed to be a lot lately. They strolled along,
bumping into merrymakers from time to time as they headed over to the bonfre early in the
hope of getting a good view. Soon there would be a comedy play and songs.
Muffns! Get your delicious hot rhubarb muffns! cried an old crone with a bent back.
Yack. These townies certainly have strange tastes, Ry-anne muttered as they walked
past the old woman.
Fredra! How go you? Markooth called, grinning broadly.
Sir Glandor. What a marvelous surprise. Havent seen you now since last Hot Period.
How are you keeping?
Im well, Im well. I didnt expect to see you here.
The woman adjusted the basket of pastries she carried. Oh, Lily and I just came over
to enjoy the festival and sell our wares. I dare say I wont be making the trip again though, Sir
Glandormy poor knees would certainly have something to say about that now!
Markooth laughed and seemed about to say more. Ry-anne tutted and introduced herself,
seeing as he had forgotten to.
Good eve, Fredra. Im Ry-anne.
Well hello there lassy. Hows about a nice muffn?
Oh Im sorry, said Markooth, remembering his yacky high-born manners at long last.
Ry-anne this is Fredra. She owns a bakery stall in Ricefeld town. Fredra this is Ry-anne, my
Pair.
Ry-anne glowed. My Pair. It sounded nice.
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Pair, eh? Well this delight is free to you then missy. And arent you a pretty thing,
too? Here you are, hon. The old woman handed her a smelly rhubarb muffn with shaking
fngers. Ry-anne took it awkwardly in the same hand that held the roasted chicken, which she
subsequently lost grip of. It landed with a splat on the worn grass.
Wonderful. I cant thank you enough, she said, hoping it didnt come out quite as rude as
it was meant.
I trust Lily is well, Markooth said.
Oh shes grown up just beautiful, Sir Glandor. Dont you agree? Shell run the Family
bakery well in a few years.
Is she here?
Just up yonder by the bonfre. Shes never seen the Festival beforenever managed to
persuade my old knees to come! The woman cackled.
Markooth kissed her goodbye and said that he must go and say hello to Lily. Ry-anne
thought it unfair that an old woman got a kiss from Markooth, when she was refused even a
mental one. And a non Glandor at that!
Fredra said I was pretty, said Ry-anne. She must be a bit crazed huh?
Fredras blind, Markooth said seriously.
Really? She tutted again and sighed. Well that explains it then I suppose. Filthy horse
woman.
Markooth snorted and exploded into laughter. Grand, youre gullible.
What? Ry-annes eyes widened. It took some effort to close her gaping mouth. So shes
not blind then? Markooth?
He grinned and wouldnt answer as he squeezed through the jostling crowds. It was all
Ry-anne could do to keep up. She could hear the large bonfre spit and snap. The fre seemed to
blister her face as she pretended not to watch Markooth look about for Lily, or to see his eyes
beam when they rested on a mousy-haired waif of a girl swamped in scrubbed bare robes. She
took a nibble of the rhubarb muffn and expected it to be ghastly but instead found it to be rather
interesting.
Come on, Markooth said and dragged her by the wrist over to the girl. Ry-anne tripped
over a wooden plate somebody had discarded. It had an old chicken bone on it and Ry-anne sent
it and her muffn fying.
Typical, she muttered, before greeting Lily. But the girl continued to stare straight
ahead, seeming hypnotized by the fre. Ry-anne shook her head. Well blazes to you, too. Shes
proper ignorant Markooth.
No. Shes deaf and mute.
Oh. Well she faming would be wouldnt she?
Markooth tapped Lilys shoulder and her eyes jumped on him nervously. Her solemn face
split into a grin. Her eyebrows raised so high Ry-anne wondered whether they would disappear
into her mousy hair and never come back.
Hi Lily, he said. You enjoying yourself here?
She nodded deeply. Vigorously. Ry-anne turned away as Markooth asked more questions
and she either shook her head or nodded or shrugged expressively. Ry-anne wished she were
allowed to wear the more revealing robes that even Gwyneth wasnt really supposed to wear.
She was roasting all bound up in this wrap and eve-robe. Sweat beads clung to her lip and her
underarms had grown sticky. Suddenly, she started to feel a little unsteady and decided to get
away from the fre, hoping it might also help to assuage that little growl of fear upsetting her
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tummy as she watched that girl smile at her Pair. Strange, but the mutes hair sometimes looked
blonde, not murky brown. Trick of the light, Ry-anne decided.
But she shouldnt be sinful. If Markooth liked the dummy, then it ought to proceed. Those
were the rules. They were just kind of hard to follow. She turned to Markooth to tell him that she
was going to stand away from the fre, when
Her heart hopped from an electric jolt of shock. Pain stabbed her in the gut. But more than
thatbewilderment.
Markooth and the mute girl were unclothed and writhing on the grassexcept the grass
was now a worn old bed. Blondish hair spilled out onto the sheets, beautiful and waving, cool
under the magnifcent glow of the twin moons. Markooths smooth skin was oddly dark, even
though the fre ought to be making it glow. The smell of wet grass and clothes entered Ry-annes
nostrils.
Ry-anne, say hi to Lily, said Markooth.
She turned to his voice, which was weirdly more to her right than where he actually lay.
But when she looked, he was completely clothed and smiling like everything was normal. So too
was the girl, whose hair was most defnitely brown. Their faces doubled, merged, few apart. Ry-
annes head swam.
And then she fainted.
* * *
The goblet of cool water was a grateful sight. Thanks. Her voice was croaky. She rubbed
her eyes with one hand. Grand, I feel stupid. I cant believe how I must have embarrassed
myselfand you.
Not your fault, Markooth said. Im sorry, I should have made us stand further back.
Ry-anne gave a dry laugh. Because I take so well to being told what to do, dont I?
She had come to on a step in front of a closed store, head between her knees. Markooth
had obviously carried her there out of the way of the heat and the surging crowds. Thankfully
the dumb girlshe shoved the memory asidewas not there.
How do you feel?
She sighed and rested tired elbows on her knees. Oh, a little woozy. But not too bad. A
deep, dull ache was wreaking havoc in her gut. She clutched it absently.
Good. Want to tell me what really happened?
Want to not talk to me as though youre not my Pappy?
Sorry.
Stop always saying sorry, too.
Sorry. She looked at him and watched him button his lip lest another one pop out. But
what happened? Have you been fainting a lot lately?
No, she said very quickly. Markooth came to sit down beside her on the step. He didnt
look convinced. His bare arm rested against hers and she could feel it warm through her eve-
robe. For once, she moved her own arm away and tried to make it look casual.
I know somethings going on that youre not telling me. And when it concerns your health,
well then youre either going to tell me easily or Ill go in and get it myself. Come Ry-anne, whats
going on in there? He tapped a fnger against her forehead and smiled.
Ry-anne shook her head. JustI dont know. She sighed and pushed her hands through
the front of her hair, realizing that much of it had broke free of the painstakingly braided plait.
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Some rooms, placeseven people sometimesmake me feelstrange. I sort of go hot and my
head gets all stuffy and I cant breathe. I see things, Markooth. Things that arent really there. I
think theres something wrong with me.
Markooth rolled his lips inward, trying to restrain a smile. Her anger rose instantly.
He hastily projected calming feelings. It isnt anything you need to worry about. Theres
nothing wrong with you. Youre just having visions. Its a gift. And used right it can protect
people, save themdamn, maybe even Glandorfrom harm!
Oh just having visions, am I? Marvelous. Just visions of you and me and then that girl
no, Im not saying any more. And dont go sneaking either. Right?
What did you see?
She fapped her hands. Please stop. I dont want to talk about that. Its nothing much,
reallyand you mustnt go looking in on me. You solemn promise?
I solemn promise. He pressed his right hand to his breast, face ultra-serious. She glared.
Listen, I know whats happening must feel weird and horrible and maybe even scary. But visions
never harm, they inform. So theres nothing to be afraid of, and youre most defnitely not going
mad, right? Ry-anne nodded reluctantly. Right? Markooth repeated. Solemn promise?
She pushed him off the step. He counteracted it with mentals and stood up gracefully. Ill
let you away with that seeing as youve just fainted.
Good of you.
Come on, Id better get you back to the House. Greys tied not far from here. You have
your Allocation this next morn. Are you looking forward to it?
Oh yes. As much as I look forward to my own Sending to the Dimension of the Dead. I
know Im only going to be a stable girl or something, so I dont see why I should bother going.
Markooth gave her a steady look and received a shrug in response.
The persistent ache in her gut made her want to groan out loud. To curl up like a child and
sleep it off. Perhaps the chicken had been sour.
* * *
The Grand adjusted her position in the old chair and got ready. She closed her eyes and
licked her lips, swallowed as she drew her concentration together. Her mind went purposely to
Ry-anne and focused in tight on the girl. She was in her room, being dressed for the Allocation.
The Grand watched. The next important event in the girls life was about to be played
out
* * *
Ry-anne ushered the servant girl out of the chamber impatiently. She wanted to be alone
with the glass. First, she slipped her hands down the oil-silk of the Allocation robe. It was grey
and serious, but a beautiful cut and the most grown up a robe she had ever been allowed into.
Instead of swathing her up to the chin, this robe started at her shoulders, crossed over her chest
and wound around the back before wrapping over her stomach, hips, thighs and calves, where it
was then pinned and some wonder of sewing caused it to pucker out in a nice curve at her ankles.
She twisted in the glass to see the back before staring again at the front. The darker grey
fabric of her under-wrap was purposefully visible at her chest. If she had not worn one so high,
as the adults did not, then you would have been able to see the top of her breastsnot that she
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had any. Ry-anne touched one hand to her chest and found the hard swellings that could never
be mistaken for bosoms to be incredibly tender. Coupled with that insistent pain in her lower
abdomenwhich occasionally stabbed with a seemingly murderous intentRy-anne wondered
whether she might actually begin the Cycle in the near future. The thought made her half
excited and half depressed. Excited because it would mean she was fnally becoming a woman
as opposed to being some tree-climbing babby. But depressed because she had this sneaking
suspicion that her Cycle might just make its frst appearance half way through the Allocation.
Should she shove a piece of cloth inside the under-wrap to soak it up if it did come?
Ry-anne!
Mammy Gamines snap gave her a jolt. I come! She forced her heart to slow and decided
there was no time to mess with anything.
She took one last look in the glass. Dark brown eyes searched her own facefrightened
eyes that glittered with excitement. She would fnd out her path this morn! With great effort, she
tugged the ribbon out of her hair, which had become all knotted up as usual. Her head throbbed,
protesting against her hair being loose when it was used to being up and scraped out of the way.
Next, she massaged her scalp and furiously tried to smooth her hair into something presentable.
I hope youve got your hair down Ry-anne, like a proper young lady! Mammy Gamine
called, thumping about the corridor getting things and people ready.
I have! She dared a sigh, certain that Mammy couldnt hear her.
No, not those sandals, Hann. Go and tell Pappy Mallun to fnd your new ones, Mammy
said quietly, then louder, Because this is an important occasion, you know, love? And if
Markooths Immediates are there then we have to make the right impression.
Oh who cares what they think? Ry-anne blurted, worrying now about seeing Kelthro
after that spell she had cast on him. Just feign ignoranceMarkooth wont have told on you.
That she was sure of.
How are you faring? Markooth asked from back over in his house where he was getting
dressed.
Excited mostly. Are your Immediates coming?
Except Mother. She doesnt feel up to it. Sorry.
Not to worry. Ry-anne was actually relieved. Cate was a strange woman. Hard to read. All
bottled up with her mind clamped down.
See you afterwards and good luck. Want me to stay with you during the Allocation, or
would you prefer some privacy? Markooth sent.
I dont mind. But its always better when youre with me. Gotta rushbye for now.
Markooth said farewell, but of course he was never really gone. He was always there on
the fringe of her consciousness like a voice in her head, a twin she would always be linked with.
Oh you could shut parts offkeep certain doors closed, and Markooth did, she knew. She sensed
them even though they were barricaded. But that was all right, really. People had a right to
space.
But their whole life long they would sense each other, no matter where they were, would
know always what the other half of the Pair was doing. She saw all his fawsthe greed, the
jealousy and the angerbut she could never stay angry. She could never hate her Paireven
if he were evil. Because she knew him inside out and they were fused. She anticipated the
workings of his mind and they would start breathing on the same rhythm, in tune. Never would
she get to know another one person that wayeven though she was good at sensing. And a Pair
was always special, even if she did take loverssomething which Markooth clearly wanted to do.
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Ry-anne! The Priestess will be awaiting us! Pappy Johann this time.
Yes Pappy!
Better go, Ry. Stop being vain and getIm sure you look lovely as always, Markooth said.
Ry-anne tried to resist the pleasure-feelings his compliment created. But she knew he
would only feel her trying not to feel fatteredshe didnt like shutting him out as he often did to
herand let them fow.
She rushed out of the chambereverybody was waiting. Except Mammy Helene, who had
never really tried to get out of bed since Kyna had died. Kyna. Grand. A sharp shock of pain went
through heramazement that she really was dead. It was unfathomable sometimeseven after
all these seasonsbut yes, she really was dead. The loss was too huge to even be overwhelming.
It was just there.
Sympathy, applied like a massage, comforted Ry-anne.
She sent Markooth a quick thank you.
At long last! cried Pappy Mallun, who was smarted up in his black special robes as were
all the other Pappies. Pappy Johann gave her a squeeze.
All grown up, he said, clutching her harder even as she shirked away, protesting that he
would crease her robe.
Pappy Jenn smiled, but it couldnt get rid of that broken look in his eyes. You certainly
look the part.
Thank you, Father Jenn.
My, we are all grown up arent we? he said and smiled.
Come along now, Mammy Gamine said. This isnt a stage performance, we have to get
on down to the prayer room. I suspect the Priestess has been waiting on your faffng for some
time now.
Yes, yes, yes, Ry-anne said as the whole herd of themall halfe brothers and sister,
Fathers and Mothermade their way to the prayer room.
Mammy Gamine gave her a smart whap. No smarts this morn, Ry-anne. Of all morns,
please Grand, not today.
Yes, yes.
The prayer room was past the battle room, which always gave Ry-anne the fngers-
sneaking-up-your-spine sneaks. Along the way they encountered more Family who passed on
congratulations and greetings to the party. Finally, Ry-anne escaped into the prayer room and
gratefully shut out their noise.
I apologize for my tardiness, Priestess.
You are forgiven, my daughter. An easy voice. No irritation. And Ry-anne remembered
the voice through a hazy image from childhood. Her Pairing.
Thats right, Markooth sent. Lyelle, I think.
The very same Priestess. Grand it was hard to mark an individual Priestess, given that
they all hid inside hoods and itchy brown robes.
Just please dont let me have to train to be a Priestess and then I shall be content. And
not a stable girl, either. Markooth will never want to kiss me if I stink of horse
Of course Ill kiss you!
Hush up!
Amused, he retreated.
Maybe a nurse or something, like Gwynnie. That seemed easy. Just dab peoples brows with
cold clothsor hotdepending on the illness. Throw a few good health spells out and there you
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have it. Yes, that ought to be easy enough. A nurse was respected, tooshe could manage that.
Markooth seemed to fnd that funny. She slapped him down in her mind with a terse This is
serious! and Ill get you later if you dont hush it. He took the hint.
The Priestess began, rabbiting away about what a momentous occasion this was, what
a marvelous landmark this Season would be. Finally, when Ry-annes knees were about to give
away, she wandered on over to the important part. Ry-anne, the Fates have conferred with
Destiny and your path has been decided
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FOUR
M
arkooth focused half of his attention on what was happening in the prayer room, the other
half on the awkward group of Immediates. Ry-annes stood separate, near as skin to the
doors and anxious. Markooths stood back from them, with himself in the middle, trying not to be
suffocated by the tension. Ry-annes Immediates had accepted him well enough, especially after
Kynas death. Theyd been so grateful she had somebody to keep an eye on her moods. Unfortu-
nately, Markooths birth parents were not quite as gracious.
There had been some attempts at conversation. Gamine had inquired about Kelthros
health only to receive a muttered reply, and she and Josephine had sparked up a chat about the
weather only for Kelthro to glare her into silence. After that, all conversation dwindled.
Gwyneth was firting with him again, right in front of Davvy, who had sidled up a few
moments ago. She was pretty, admittedly. No, not pretty, but exquisite in a way Ry-anne could
never be. All fragile and feminine in a way that made you want to protect her.
Markooth! Ry-anne exclaimed and then projected mock hurt.
But she knew he wasnt blind. Communal living was fne. Sharing work and families was
just great. Why have one mother and one father to look after and provide for a small family,
when there could be thirtyforty parents, all looking out for the children? All working for the
good of the Family and each other. And Pairs, well Pairs were special, but sometimes people
needed an outlet. To escape from somebody who knew your every thought and breath and desire.
And thats why lovers were acceptedneeded even.
But it wasnt acceptable to become involved with a Pairs Immediates. That was forbidden,
made of lust and selfsh need.
I do worry about what will become of young Ry-anne, Gamine said then. I know I
shouldnt ask Markooth, but can you not tell us something of what the Priestess is saying? Go
on.
Gamine! That was Johann. Pair business is private. How would you like it if Markooth
asked how we entertained ourselves last eve? Hm?
A secret smile came to Gamines thin lips, which she tried to check. She nudged Johann
playfully and he planted a kiss in her hair. That was Johann, always the diffuser. Always the one
you wanted around when there was trouble brewing.
A bit like you, Ry-anne mentioned, absently.
She was bored in the prayer room, with the Priestess babbling on about landmarks and
occasions and so on and so forth. Markooth sent back encouragement.
I wonder if shell be a nurse like Gwynnie. Shes good at spells you know. Very good.
Always has been, Gamine said. Markooth snatched a glance at his father, whose face twitched.
Or she could be a teacher, I suppose. She likes bossing peopleI suppose youve noticed.
Dont you answer that, came Ry-annes warning when Gamines question, processed by his
thoughts, reached her.
I wouldnt reply to that if I were you, Mallun joked.
Or she might be a grounds boyI mean girl. She likes the muck, Andee quipped,
elbowing his shiny new Paira small, shy blonde girl who was two Seasons younger than
Andees fourteen. The girl smiled at the ground and didnt quite have the courage to meet
anybodys eye.
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Thats enough from you, boy, Jenn said, completely destroying Andees credibility.
Markooth smiled at everyone, but he was really with Ry-anne in the prayer room. It
was getting to the important bit. The fates have conferred with Destiny and your path has been
decided
By the Grand! Markooth cried. His jaw hung open, totally limp.
Everybody stared.
* * *
Ry-anne was numb. Im sorry. Can youwwould you repeat that please?
The Priestess smiled benevolently. I know. The idea will certainly take some getting used
to, but my door is always open if you need counsel. Rest assured, the Fates are right in this. Go,
tell your Immediates and friends. Celebrate. You will return to me this next morn and we will
begin your training.
Butbut why me? She took a deep breath when it became obvious that the priestess
was no longer answering questions. Tomorrow then. Here? The Priestess smiled that wise, easy
smile and nodded. Right. Somehow, Ry-anne managed to turn around and persuade her legs
to cross the distance to the doors. She fumbled with the knob, slipped twice before getting the
cursed thing open.
Everybody stared.
Mammy Gamine greeted her with eager eyes, the forefront of ffteen other expectant
gazeseven Markooths Immediates were more than a little curious. Kelthro was probably
wondering whether she was going to disgrace their name by becoming a stable girl.
Well? Mammy Gamine clutched each of Ry-annes arms. What is it? Are you to be a
medic a teacher a
Moving through a whirl of numbness, Ry-anne extracted herself and shook her head. Not
looking at anybody, she went for Markooth.
Gamine was baffed. What could be so bad?
Markooth tried to offer an answer. But he couldnt. He just shook his head and moved
away with Ry-anne.
Probably is a grounds girl, Andee snickered.
Hush! said Jenn before giving him a clout.
With Markooth at her side, Ry-anne walked towards the secondary meal room where they
had arranged to go for something to eat and drink. Celebrate, the Priestess had said. Not likely.
Like a funeral procession, they all moved into the meal room and took seats around tables
of set out bread, sweetmeats, nuts, village cakes and goblets of ale. Certainly, Ry-anne felt like
it was the end of her life. Solemn faces, intrigued faces, and worried faces were all around. But
Ry-anne had no idea what her own face was refecting. She bent over the table and hid it in her
arms.
Markooth was trying to get in, trying to offer reassurances, but everything was all blurred
and she couldnt listen. Gwyneth and Gamine crept close.
Why wont she tell us, Markooth? Gwyneth asked.
Gamine gently touched her shoulder. You can tell me, honey. We wont think badly. Come
on, love.
Ry-anne bit down on her lip. Hard. She wanted to cryto feel something. But she was
totally and amazingly numb. I cant, she told Gamine in a whisper and got up. The stool
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scraped against the polished wood foora sharp sound in the silent hall. Nobody tried to stop
her from leaving.
Should you not go after her, Markooth? Josephine asked.
No. She needs time some time to think this through.
Ry-anne was suddenly unable to breathe. Her robe was too tight. Suffocating. Grand! She
bashed the doors open and ran outside into the open air. Standing there, in the quad that was
the center of each Wing, she tried to catch her breath. Markooth was still nearby, a reassuring
presence that barely ever leftunless he was doing something that he was embarrassed about.
But even Markooth couldnt make this right. Things would never be the same again now. Not
ever.
* * *
Ry-anne greeted the next morn with the same sick, dead feeling of Kynas sending off.
She went to the meal room for breakfast and sat in undisturbed silence with her Immediates.
Markooth was not therehis Immediates always ate alone. She pushed away the porridge
and sipped at some berry juice before grabbing an orange. She didnt think she could manage
anything else.
Today shed ask the Priestess whether it was all a mistake. It must be. She was far too
irresponsible for such a job. Why, after Kynaand its familiar, gut-pain acheshe had never
been able to use physical mentals again. She would convene with Markooth and use them to
fgure out a person, but she would never participate in mental exercise again, no matter how
much Moody tried to press her into it. Surely it would be ridiculous to allowit would just be
ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous!
Immediates looked on surreptitiously as unsteady fngers sliced into an orange. She
halved it once and then halved those pieces and brought one quarter to her mouth, glancing up
for the frst time. The whole table watched. Their eyes fickered away like naughty children. Only
Father Johanns gaze lingered. He smiled, but Ry-anne went back to the orange and sucked on
the sweet, tangy fruit. Juices dribbled down her chin. She cussed, wiped her face with a napkin
and looked around the table again. Again, all those eyes pretended not to be watching.
Ry-anne tutted. She set the orange down and wrung her sticky fngers on the napkin. I
must go, she said on a sigh. I have to ask the Priestess whether she made a mistake.
Oh Ry-anne, Mammy Gamine said. Its all right
No! She shouted, much louder than she ought. The meal room hushed instantly, and Ry-
annes cheeks fared red. She leaned into the center of the table. No mother, its not all right. But
Ill straighten it out. I have to.
Wont you tell us why youre so troubled about this? Gamine asked.
Tell us, honey. Well be proud of you whatever. You know that.
Ry-anne was just short of screaming. She sighed, very loudly and stood up. The chair
toppled back with a clatter. Oh for Grands Cheeks burning, Ry-anne picked it up, her hip
knocking off the knife she had balanced on the plate. Things are just getting better and better,
arent they?
She left the whole mess and strode out of the hall. Heads turned as she passed and the
mental curiosity was stifing. She yanked at one of the doors and it few open, banging so hard
she thought it would splinter. Pretending that shed meant to do itwhich was hard since she
had to shoot one arm out to stop the door bouncing back in her faceRy-anne stalked out with
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her head high.
Outside, tears threatened. She wiped one hand over her face, which still smelled strongly
of oranges and forced herself to continue on.
Ry-anne? Markooth sounded worried.
Dont try to talk me out of it! I have to fnd out whether this is a mistake.
She felt him sigh. If you need to do this then I suppose
I really do.
Ry-anne bustled towards the prayer room. The corridors were mercifully desertedonly
a few kids late for breakfast whipped past. The schoolyard bells would start ringing in a few
moments and Ry-anne wanted to be out of the way before she was trampled in the subsequent
swarm of babbies rushing towards the schoolhouses. Normally shed be one of them, but not this
morn. This morn regular classes ended and Allocation training began.
Well not if she could help it.
The Priestess was waiting, lighting candles on the front desk. She extinguished the tapers
fre when Ry-anne entered.
Holy Priestess, she said, once she was met by that serene smile all Priestesses possessed.
Ah, I sense that you are troubled with the news of your path, child. Most in your situation
would be.
Its not right, is it? she asked. Tell me the Fates have it wrong.
The Priestess pleasant expression turned to poorly disguised mortifcation. She struggled
to put her smile back on. The Fates are never mistaken. All have a purpose. All is Destiny, child.
No. Your Allocation is not wrong.
Ry-anne glanced down. Her gaze swiveled over the foor as her thoughts worked. So how
must I go about challenging their decision?
Oh! The Priestess looked as if she was about to faintotherwise a devil stood before her.
Child, you must not speak so in this holy place.
But Ry-anne clutched her forehead and shoved annoying wisps of hair out of the way.
But by Grand this is awful.
The Priestess seemed to whimper. She quickly kissed her fst and pressed it frmly to her
bosom. Child
Oh Grand Im sorryOh! I mean
Perhaps you ought give talking a rest and listen awhile?
Thats probably a good idea. I apologize, good Priestess. But my thoughts are in turmoil. I
just cant seem to
Listen A forced smile. Child.
Yes, Priestess.
The Priestess offered her a seat on the front pew and then sat beside her. She smelled of
lavender soap. Many paths are hard to follow, and I understand your fear. You dont believe that
you will make a success of yours. But you know, you have many Seasons of training ahead of you.
Many Seasons to become accustomed to your Allocation. Have Faith in Destiny, young one. For it
is not fallible.
Ry-anne tried to take in what the Priestess said and looked up to the halls mosaic roof.
Red, orange and yellow tiles made up the image of The Fire That Will Always Be Tended. She felt
a shiver. But what do I do? I mean, do I have to act differently now?
Certain paths command respect, certainly. And it would be wrong to demean them with
unfavorable behavior. But I leave that to you.
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Ry-anne looked down at her hands. She played with the bitten nails, ripped off a hangnail.
They hardly seemed like capable hands. Were they a refection of her? Would she be capable?
Her head swam. What if people are angry at the Fates decision? They tried to get my Pairing
annulled; whats stopping them from challenging this, too?
It is not challengeable, the Priestess said easily. And the people have Faith in Destiny
and their Grandas should you.
Shes right. Have faith, Ry-anne.
Stay out of this. Im busy.
Ry-anne exhaled, long and slow. So what do I do now? I have no idea how to go about
training for something like this.
No. But we do. First you must meet with your mentals trainer.
Mentals? No Priestess, I cant do those anymore.
I know your pain, daughter. But your path demands it of you. Believe me, there will be
harder challenges to come.
And this counseling is supposed to make this easier? Ry-anne asked Markooth.
I think shes just being honest with you.
Ry-anne sat up straighter and the bench creaked. Fine. Ill meet with my teacher, but Im
not saying that Ill be able to do anything straight away.
Very well. Your trainer awaits you in the Grand Statue Garden. Go now.
Well at least I get out of history class this morn. The Priestess looked confused as Ry-
anne got up to leave. I would have had to sit through Dimension history this morn had not I
been Allocated yester-eve.
I see. The Priestess edged out of the pew. Well, you shall not be studying history this
morn.
Thank the Grand. I cannot think of anything duller.
History is in two morns.
Ry-anne looked at the Priestess. She was deadly serious.
In no hurry, Ry-anne made her way towards the Statue Garden. Someone was already
there.
What are you doing here? Im meeting somebody in a moment.
I know. I am your trainer.
Ry-anne gaped.
The grin on Lefus dark face was supremely wicked.
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FIVE
T
ell me this isnt true, Ry-anne said, arms folded. But even as she spoke, her eyes took in the
mats on the grass and a sinking feeling weighed down her stomach.
This isnt true.
Oh funny. She batted strands of hair out of her eyes, hooked them over her ears. Just
so as you know, I hope you havent come to collect on your bet. I didnt mention anything to
Markooth about you berating me the other evethough I am sure he was aware of it. So it looks
like you owe me six donkeys, four and a half cows testicles, and youd better leave Greys heart
where it is.
Lefus put his hands on his hips. He was obviously in no mood for joking. Just get over
here so we can start.
I dont believe this, Ry-anne muttered, reluctantly crossing the distance between them.
She wanted to ask Markooth whether he had known, but she doubted it. Besides, he was busy
concentrating at work in the North Wing. It would be dangerous to interrupt him.
The sun beamed merrily and Jirrup birds futtered about on bird business. An unwelcome
breeze tugged at Lefus shoulder length raven hair and her robereminding her that it was only
just Warm Period and that a chill could still lace the air. She shuddered, unsure whether it was
from the cold or Lefus.
He looked at her without interest, eyes traveling up and down. She frowned hard, but he
was not frightened off. Nervous, she shifted position and waited for him to return to the present
Dimension. His black eyes focusedtwin, dark orbs that bore into her own, assessing.
This morn marks the beginning of a continuous Season of mentals training. You will
report here this time every morn. Understood? This aft, you will go to the North Wing to
commence your Spell training. I will tell Markooth to expect you, and he will give you further
instructions when you arrive. We shall start with the elementary maneuvers. I hear you have not
practiced physical mentals for quite a while?
She fdgeted and was again tempted to grill Markooth about how much he knew about
this. Is that a problem?
Why not save your defensiveness for when a real attack comes?
Ry-anne dry-swallowed. Was that a threat? Im not doing this.
Lefus ignored her, dragged one mat off the pile of two and laid it next to the frst one. Next
he grabbed her arm with pincer-like fngers and forced her to stand in the center. In the air.
Now.
No.
Lefus sighed. Fine.
Ry-anne screamed as she was propelled upwards. Lefus will kept her hovering at the
height of his head. She bit her lip painfully, embarrassed about crying out. Without warning, he
let go his grip and she plummeted. Her stomach fell away. She reactedstopped her fall with
only grass blades to sparelegs bunched up to her bottom.
You pig-lover, she breathed.
Lefus wasnt taken aback. Maybe he doesnt have emotions, Ry-anne thought. Maybe his
have been crushed under a rock. She glared at him, but his steady gaze did not finch.
Now raise high.
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No.
Raise high!
I cant!
I dont care about your story, little girl, he growled through gritted teeth. Now raise
high.
That stung. She licked cracked lips and was just about to attempt itslowlywhen his
impatience kicked in. He rocketed her up as high as the House and she squeezed her eyes tight
against a tickling tummy. It was hard to be so vulnerableto have to rely on Lefus to keep her
there. Her mind reached out tentatively, thinking about taking hold but not defnite.
Lefus let go and her stomach once again plummeted to the ground. Grand! she screeched
from up high. Eyes frightened as his foreboding fgureand the gardensrushed closer. Like the
crow man. Closer. Kynarainicenumbcurls failingsquealing, girlish voiceHelp me,
Ry! Closer. She slammed to a stop with mentals, feet just higher than his broad shoulders.
Lefus nodded. No well done. Just an unaffected nod. Now roll.
I thinkI think Im done for this morn, she snapped, catching her breath and starting
to lower down. But she was still rusty. She juddered and skipped a distance, catching hold just
before the impact of the mat could break her ankles. Great Glandor.
Should have tucked your legs back to your buttocks. It gives you more time to stop, Lefus
said.
She blurted out a wave of disgust at him but he just kept looking, bored and impervious.
Raise up again. This time give yourself some distance in case you drop.
Trying to collect her patience, Ry-anne rose up, cautiously and painfully slow, as though
she was but fve Seasons again. It was embarrassing to be so clumsy in front of him. There,
she said fnally, resting and holding at a suffcient height. Can I go now? I feel sick, she stopped
herself from saying.
Show me a roll.
But
Sighing, Lefus spun her himself. He shouted over Ry-annes indignant screams. Show me
how you would stop a roll!
Just stop it! Ry-anne cried as she hurtled over and over in a mid-air forward roll. Her
plait slapped her forehead with each turn. Her stomach protested. Youll pay for this I swear
ahhLefus stop
You stop it.
Nngh. The world spun furiously. Who knew which way was up or down at this point. Her
neck was stressed. But Lefus just kept on rolling. She reached out. Tried to counter the spin, but
was rebuffed by Lefus will. Tried again and was fung away. Quit throwing me off!
Fact of life; somebody has you in a mental spin and you want out of it. You have to work
for it. Show me how you would stop.
Ry-anne groaned. Grass. Sky. Grass. Sky. Sick bubbled up in her throat and she quashed
an overwhelming urge to vomit. Anger now. Dammit! she cried and wrenched herself out of
Lefus mental grasp and backpedaled frighteningly fast through the air. She sensed something
solid behind. A tree? She was going to crash! Grand! Hasty refexes constructed a cushion and the
world was fnally still.
Ry-anne opened her eyes and met the sky. Shock. Shed thought she would be upright and
facing Lefus, a few hands drop from the grass. What the?
You lost your direction, Lefus said and she craned up to see him. Her head sieved as she
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fgured out her center of gravity and realized she was horizontal, not standing. She dropped with
a bump.
Oof! Ow. Her brain rattled, even though a mat cushioned her fall. Her stomach muscles
clenched as she struggled to a sitting position and grabbed her ankles. She slouched.
Still, that is how you ought to get out of a roll. But always be aware of your position, not
only of what is around you but where you are placed within it. It is always essential to know your
orientation. If you ever have to rip out of a real roll, it would be helpful to know whether you are
horizontal or vertical. If you have to spend valuable moments fguring which way is up, then your
opponent will most likely win. And that means youre dead, by the by.
Ry-anne laughed without mirth. Thanks. You know, I was worried about my Allocation
before I met with you and now, well, youve just made me feel so comfortable.
I know your problems, Ry-anne
Good for you, she muttered and then dared a look. He glared, seeming unhappy about
being cut off. She looked down, broke a few blades of grass, and he continued.
Believe me. Of all people I know your past and I know your fears. But as long as I have
something to do with it, you will not be beaten in a mental fght. I assure you of that.
Ry-anne gazed at him, confusion raging. His dark eyes burned and made her shiver
involuntarily. But there was something else lurking in those eyes. Pain. She leaned her head to
one side, studying, thoughtful. Lefus turned his back.
You can go. Thats enough for this morn.
She wanted to know what troubled him, what his big secret was that he was hiding. But
his clenched fsts hardly invited questions, so she stood up, brushed off the grass and strolled out
towards the public stables. There she stroked Metal, a velvet black stallion. The sun cheerfully
informed her that it was some time till the bells for lunch. Blasted sun, she thought. Blasted,
aquamarine sky. How dare the sky be in such a good mood when she was in such a bad one?
As she leaned over the fence to pat Metals long nose, she wondered about Lefus. Soon
after she and Markooth had frst been Paired, she had asked what was wrong with his brother.
Markooth hadnt understood, but Ry-anne supposed that children saw things from a different
perspective. However, it was true that Lefus did seem to walk around under a permanent
shadow and, strangely, seemed to repel light and love and anything good. Shed said this to
Markooth, who had tried to reassure her that Lefus was perfectly fne, if a little irritable. But he
had mentioned that Lefus did not have a Pair and that was undeniably odd, given that he was
about ffteen or sixteen Seasons at that time.
Did Markooth think that Lefus would ever get a Pair? shed asked. But Markooth wouldnt
answer that. He just told her, gently, to leave it well alone and never talk about that. Now, Ry-
annes fngers glided over Metals soft, furry nose. Sometimes she and Markooth took him out
with the aging Grey, but not today. She felt the wet tip of his nose and then patted the side
of his head, which was lined with veins and a few moles. The sun had warmed his dark fur
considerably.
And Lefus still doesnt have a Pair now, does he? she asked Metal, who rested his head
atop the faded wooden fence. Metal blinked, long eyelashes showing. Feral brown eyes inspected
her, more than half-interested. He snuffed at her hand to check for food and sneezed when he
found she had none, pulling his head away from the fence and going back to his favorite past
timecropping the grass.
Even though Metal clearly did not have the answers, it was clear that Lefus was still
Pairless. So that meant he was either not getting one or he had already had one. And if he
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had had one, that meant she was either dead or lost. That would certainly account for Lefus
bleakness and the bubbling anger that he barely contained beneath his tense exterior. It was sad.
But the feeling that she didnt even know the half of it gave her the chills. Why was Lefus Pair
dead or lost? Ry-anne ruffed the tuft of black hair between Metals twitching ears.
Wish you could tell me, boy, Ry-anne murmured. Suddenly the bells for lunch rang out.
She said a reluctant goodbye to Metal before running back to the House, wondering who her spell
teacher would be. Not Fatbottomshe would be at work in the schoolrooms this day. It would
probably be somebody fat and smelly. Or worse, old.
* * *
The door opened and Devenich came out. The Grand wants to see you, he said as he
came out.
Markooth thought that it was about time he got to see who he worked for. He nodded to
Devenich who, as the Grands personal Guard, demonstrated great trust to wait outside while he
was alone with their ruler. Markooth strode in, kissed his fst and touched it to his chest.
Great Grand, he said. You honor me.
The old womans eyes sparked, reminding him that supreme energy fooded that wizened
form of hers. I do, do I? she seemed amused.
Yes, my Grand.
Hm. Well, Devenich will be training you as replacement to my personal guard. He is
aware of this.
Me? But I dontI dont even have seniority
Hold your tongue! The eyes drilled into him, then softened once she had achieved the
desired effect. Things do not work on seniority around here. They work off talent. Both Indo,
Devenich and the eve Guards believe that you will make a fne personal Guard. Any questions? If
you do, now is the time to speak them. Otherwise, well, there is no going back.
Although he was taken aback, one never disagreed with the Grandnot in this sort of
situation. No, my Grand. I have no questions. And I thank you for your consider
Pah. She waved an irritated hand, slicing him into silence. Do not for one moment
believe that I chose you out of preference. I chose you for the desire to live. You will be one of my
best.
Yes, my Grand. I would never presume that
Good. Presumption leads to casualties. Now, Devenich will guide you in this, but starting
this eve you will have one night on and one night off as Personal Guard. Understood? Good.
Markooth closed his mouth. He wanted to ask how Devenich felt about being usurped
by a conscript brat. But he kept the words to himself. The Grand stared at him. His thoughts
rushedwas there something he was supposed to say?
Ah
Scat!
Yes, my Grand. He ducked out of the room, feeling like he needed to catch his breath.
Devenich did not look at himhe was too caught up with seeking out and repairing or alerting
the Grand to any tears or abnormalities in the Dimension.
Commander, Markooth began.
I am perfectly fne with your promotion. The Grand has her reasons and we do not
question them. All that concerns me is the Grands safety and I know you will defend her well.
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End of discussion.
But would he do a good job? Markooth worried. Devenich would not give him the
reassuring glance and half smile Markooth wanted. Fair enough, the Grands safety was the
utmost concern, but a man had pride. Devenich certainly. Unfortunately, there was nothing
Markooth could do about the decision.
Devenich seemed to come back to reality a moment. But he still retained that look common
to all Guards. The look that said even though Im talking to you my mind lives elsewhere.
Markooth wondered whether he had it yet. Devenich opened the door with mentals, ready to go
back in.
Go home the end of this shift and do not return until the next eve, where you will
personally guard the Grand. You wont get any hassle.
Markooth nodded and Devenich went inside. His fngers touched the hilt of his sword and
his mentals rested on the knife in his thigh boot. His thoughts were with the Dimension, sensing
it like invisible water. Harder than normal water perhaps, maybe more like ice. And every bit
as fragile and breakable. Markooth scoured the immediate vicinity for bubbles or cracks. He
smelled Indos sharp mind when he wandered too far off his patch. He moved back and nearly
bumped into Devenich, who seemed to glow like a beacon, his mind like an impenetrable shield
over the Grand.
Ry-anne will be visiting the North Wing shortly. She has spell lessons with you-know-who,
Lefus mental voice said abruptly.
Understood. How did she fare today?
There was a mental shrug and Lefus slipped away, leaving Markooth a little agitated. His
brother was such blasted hard work. Sometimes it was a struggle to fnd any warmth in him at
all. He knew why of course, but nevertheless it was still hard to keep making excuses for him
A crack in the Dimension. Markooths heart splintered with shock. Every little break
and breach made him anxious, whereas Devenich and Indo would handle it with effcient calm.
Happens a lot, they would say after his frst heart attack. You just sort it and theres no problem.
Easy to say. Markooth focused on the crack, saw the black leaking through like poison. His will
stoppered it. The evil fought back, burning Markooths brain white hot, riddling it with base
ideas. But Markooth smoothed good over the chink and the evil was locked out, the Dimension
once again perfect.
There was a mental pat-on-the-back from Indo. Suddenly there came a knock on the door.
Markooth fashed on Ry-anne. Nervous stomach. Fast heart. Wide eyes. Messy auburn waves
that shed tried to smoothe out. Cute.
Oh dont be disgusting, he chided himself and let Indo know that he would let her through.
But Indo was already aware. No threat, he reported.
Markooth breathed a sigh of relief. Of course she was no threat. But what if? Could
Markooth ever really harm Ry-anne to protect the Grand? It was these questions that worried
him. These questions that made him think maybe one day he would be responsible for allowing
destruction into this fair land. Still scouring his area of the Dimension, Markooth started down
the stairs to let Ry-anne in. Grand she was in for a shock, he thought, but kept that thought to
himself.
Whats going on? Why am I here? Am I in trouble? He felt her worry absently, the questions
not particularly directed at him.
He sent reassurance. Poor girl, as if she hadnt had enough shocks these past few morns.
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To be continued in the October 2003 issue of
Deep Magic...
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The chilling cries of the siren fell silent at last, and the feeding frenzy for its remains
would quickly clean up the mess.
Never look at me unless I speak, the man shouted. How dare any of you think to look
upon me. How dare! His voice carried on by the Portal generators, the message repeating again
and again, farther and farther away.
He began up the road-ramp, a surge of pleasure sweeping through him. The day comes,
Lord Echion, he muttered to himself. He hesitated nearly half way up, scanning more of the
darkness above for traces of other galaxies. Other smudges did break the darkness in irregular
glistens.
Where have they taken you, Dragon of Night?! his voice hovered near hysteria. Where
have they taken you! Putrescent, Mestrate Primoids! Echion, Dragon of Night will stand above
you all! He will rule the very stars of your weak God!! then more quietly. And I shall ruin the
fair daughters of Your mighty ones . . .
The echoing defance rolled on across the waking world. Distant cries answered. The man
smiled. Some of the Imps had risen. He glanced up the ramp-way and saw the bones of two of
the sentinel Imps gurgling in dark juices as organs renewed within them.
The sight reminded him of The Treasure, green and radiantleft behind for a time. It had
made all this possiblethe Imps and sirens, Pullers and Stormers, but most of all the Helotoids.
He continued up the road-ramp. At its head, the magnifcent horned, winged edifce
waited, its living doors sealed tightly, eager for this day. He glanced up at the skull-shaped
crystal lens suspended between the sweeping wingspan. Through it and millions like it, the
Portal generators had long ago focused their energies to link the worlds of the Third Empire.
This nexus world of Focus Seven had slept since its fall but stirred with a new hunger. The
waking skull-lens glistened highlights of Procyxian blue from some inner, invisible source.
The sentinel Imps climbed from their mire and dropped to their knees.
Lord Lieutenant Korday, one spoke in a voice more like a hyenas than human.
Welcome your return to Focus Seven. We await your pleasure.
Open the doors ahead and alert the Stormer within. Have him activate the Portal
generator. I will arrive at the control balcony shortly.
They scurried ahead in leaps, seeming to jump from place to place in stop-motion stutters.
Korday diverted to one of the ramp-ways retaining walls and looked out toward the expansive
horizon. From all around the pool-maze membrane, pale sirens leapt and turned, landing
downward again without making a splash. Ship-sized Pullers reached up from their circular
enclaves, stretchingsniffng space hungrily for prey.
In time, Korday said, grinning. In short time there will be much for you to feast on.
Much.
Three squadrons of Razor ships screeched across the sky directly overhead. Good.
Do not venture far. He spoke to them. Stand ready! The ships arched back toward his
Portal generator. They took positions above its skull-lens, hovering in three, slowly preceding
pentagonal formations just slightly farther across than the skull-lens and centered directly above
it, pointing toward space.
Yes, perfect, my sons. Wait. Wait for my death. Look at metie in. Should I die, come
and take vengeance. But I shall not die! Still, prudence . . . prudence.
The great doors opened ahead. Wind rushed from the darkness beyond. Korday turned
and hurried inside.
To mere human eyes the darkness would be complete, but Korday smiled. The ornate,
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ponderous lamps of the Black Arts radiated their heavy power and dark terror all about the great
staging chamber. The inlaid murals of murder and torture flled its vaulting walls. Each scene
seethed where he looked, their atrocities animating when Kordays gaze moved across them.
More Imps had arisen and knelt at his passage. He gave them only passing notice as he
strode toward the high balcony facing the massive doors that opened to the Portal generator
itself. After arriving, he took the silent lift. Some eighty stories above the foor he emerged to
face the Stormer. He smiled. This one was a child with long, faxen hair tied in a pastel ribbon.
She bowed deeply.
Is all as it was left? he asked, moving to the control panel. The rows of dark metal
control stubs engraved with the symbols of the Old Tongue seemed as if they had just barely been
wrought. None were depressed, awaiting his entry of coordinates.
All is as it was, her voice was quiet, introspective. No infdel foot has touched our
sacred world.
And are you hungry to take worlds for your Lord?
Take and devour its innocent ones.
And soon you shall, once Echion returns with his feets. But I now require discipline, I
require unwavering, loyal discipline.
She bowed assent.
He moved his hands across the stubs, depressing them in order. I am targeting Mhyrn.
She grew pale in the utter darkness.
Yes, Mhyrn! Mhyrn!! his voice strained. I will found our Fourth Empire back were all
began, and the Primoids will be able to do nothing. They are so weakened from all their whining
rules and bleeding charities that they cannot move against us in time.
I have come because the prophesied Holy Man and Infdel are now on Mhyrn. They shall
not obtain their desires, for I shall subvert the . . . his voice tightened upon itself for a moment.
He struggled, then forced the syllables out. Z . . . Z . . . Zorl Worshippers . . .
The girl nearly retched at the sound of the words. She stood shakily, eyes closed. A thin
trail of saliva ran down from the corner of her mouth. Korday gently dabbed it, stroking the
girls chin. I am sorry I said The name. I shall not speak such accursed words again.
I shall subvert His pallid impotents frst. Then it will be too late to block the glory of
Procyx from spreading across the stars to free our Master, wherever he is restrained. Long have
I waited . . .
Come forward. I have selected the Portals destination. See? But do not as yet engage. I
need you to fne tune the entry point.
Nodding, the girl deftly adjusted a sphere foating in a chalice of some bloody, whirling
liquid. The walls made slight whimpering sounds.
Let me see the terrain of Mhyrn.
Together they turned to a stretch of translucent skin drawn across a spiked, metal oval
measuring perhaps two meters across. It shuddered, then began to glow. Its venous pink light
shifted and stuttered as long streaks of black spread then bled from its arteries until the entire
screen wore the color. Shades of white and pink oozed into the black, running into shapes that
resolved and articulated.
The limb of the planet appeared, nearly eclipsing the rose-colored sun of Mhyrn. The girl
worked at the sphere, sloshing the bloody fuid about as she twisted and turned it. The planet
approached.
There, Korday pointed. The Outer City. See the great cone edifce? I will not speak its
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name! Set up the entry point a thousand meters up and a thousand meters back, pointing at a
tangent to it.
The image shifted, moving past rows of hovering, Mhyrnian battleships that had set up
several rings of defensive perimeter about the great cone temple.
That is so, yes. Now, again I say do not activate the Portal until I call or until you sense
my death. I shall not die, but prudence . . . prudence.
Finished, the girl fell to her knees, bowing. What more can I do? Have you any notion of
where the Dragon of Night or the Lady Ramm are?
Kordays anger roiled from within. Great Echion is yet hidden away by the Primoids. I
can do nothing to sense him, but unchecked, Procyx shall free him. He readies for his escape
even now. Korday did not believe these last words, but it was imperative the devout did.
As for Ramm, she and her minions dwell trapped beyond the edge of the universe lost, I
fear, behind the time curtain that hangs there.
I am of her order, the Stormer bowed low. We MUST free her! Her wailing screech
rivaled the deafening pierce of metal dragged against metal. It rattled the staging hall,
reechoing down deep burrows and lower chambers, evoking sympathetic cries from Imps and
other lesser slaves brooding below. Vengeance shall be mine upon the worlds of the Primoids!
She tore at her sleeves, rending them. The dull metal nodes on her arms crackled sparks in blue
like Procyxs fre. She pounded her fsts on the foor with such force that its thick metal buckled.
Fiercer forks of power spat from her arm nodes about the room singeing smoldering, black
smears all across the broad weave cloth of her tunic. Her tortured wailing framed no words, and
the ferce, blue eruptions danced across the walls oozing metal in hot white spatters wherever
they touched. Korday watched, somber.
He raised his hand for silence. Focus . . . focus. You must be focused now. Look at me.
Look! Yes. Restrain your fury. Soon. Now you must guard the skies of Mhyrn. Watch for the
foundation of the Empire and then you shall have your revenge!
He looked up, teeth gritted, eyes wide and unblinking. And I vow this oath of revenge by
the Great God of the Mhyrnians! Witness You, and all Your mighty ones! Do You hear? I make
the sacred signs . . . I speak Your ancient words of power, that You cannot mistake! Fon Koshk!
Fon Vorkaz! Tus nu Noiv! Tu Fon Dillistoov, Kellk von skeshk Re Vee Nogk! Do You see?! He
touched the heel of his hand at his forehead. Smoke wafted from it. I, Prince of the Order of
those Watchers and Giants murdered in Your food, burn this oath upon my forehead so that I
cannot forget! Its fery words shall sear my sleep and never be extinguished until every world is
claimed and every holy Treasure is ours! This oath I seal also upon the foreheads of all who wait
here on this sacred world.
The shouted words fell away in dwindling, rebounding echoes until only the quiet
thrumming of the Portal command station remained. Korday gathered himself. He turned to
see the Stormer, her own forehead wafting thin trails of smoke.
Now, I need awaken one of the elite of the Helotoids.
Come Lord Lieutenant. Her face set with steeled resolve, the girl turned and hurried
toward the lift.
Together they moved down one of the thousands of long, subterranean troop tunnels that
ran and twisted between Portal generators. Korday strolled past the endless rows of standing
sarcophagi, glancing at the name and lists of theaters in which their sleeping occupants had
fought. He could barely see the actual Helotoids, their forms murky within the suspension
membrane that flled each coffn.
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No, not this one, he muttered over and over while the Stormer fitted about ahead of him,
glancing and occasionally indicating a possibility. No . . . No . . . No . . . Wait.
He stopped, surveying a lengthy and very old list of campaigns. Some etchings were so
ancient Korday had trouble discerning them. This one went back all the way to the frst days of
Tolereth. Above the head of the sarcophagus Korday found a crest as old as the universe itself.
Andralia, He muttered. A moments more study stirred recognition. It dawned upon Korday
with a food of excitement. This Helotoid was one of the original fve engineered by Echion
himself. Korday glanced at the name: Delt. He smiled. Yes. The name opened recollections.
Delt had been made on Tolereth and would already know much of Mhyrn.
This one, he said.
The Stormer turned and her face went pale. That one is unstable. We keep him out of
honor and by the command of the scriptures handed us from the Dragon of Night Himself.
Korday regarded the dark shape beneath the membrane and thought back, concentrating
hard on the days of the Dawn Era. He closed his eyes, allowing his memory to bore down past
billions of years to the beginningthe glorious days when they had taken the Treasure. Yes,
he did remember Delt. The Helotoid had murdered hundreds of divisions of his own imperial
soldiers to ferret out one Primoid agent. He had then tortured him into revealing what the
Primoids knew of those energies that led to development of the Portals. Delt had taken
initiative, rebelled against conformity. It was wholly unlike the fanatically obedient though too
often unimaginative Helotoids. But Delts initiative had made possible the great Portal arrays
that had spawned the Empires of Echion. Delt would be the right one for this work. Korday
smiled and stubbed the controls to terminate suspension.
The membrane sloughed off the Helotoid as if made of tumbling, transparent maggots.
From behind the sleeping warrior, the pendulous organ of preservation slowly began to shudder
in swallowing waves. Korday gazed at the eyes of the Helotoid, waiting for their dark glow to
blister beneath the thick brows of a dragons facea face Korday felt sure would give pause to a
T-Rex. The eyes stayed dead but the jaw moved and yawned. It looked hardened pink around
the edges, the face itself a marriage of metal, muscle, bone and mucous. Its dark sensor hairs,
pulled back behind the venous, boned face, trailed long behind the neck in a kind of ponytail.
The weapons array clustered at the sternum of the jade, suede-covered bone armor glowed to
orange life. Ripples of red infused the feeder tendons that stretched along neck and abdomen
and limbs, blinking in throbbing waves of angry light before settling to a constant, dull glow.
The left hand-claw twitched. Several tentacles crept out of the Helotoids back, exploring the
air, testing its surroundings before pulling back in. Delts eyes fashed. Lieutenant Korday, its
rumbling, lion-rough voice spoke at last.
Korday smiled. Awake, old friend. Gather your powers. We have work to do on Mhyrn.
Lord Lieutenant Korday stood at the crest of the ramp-way just beyond the doors to the
Portal generator structure. A single needle of coherent blue stabbed up through the skull lens
higher and farther until it was lost in intergalactic blackness. The ffteen razor ships clung to
the column, waitingstretched out in a helical formation. The Portal stood ready to open upon
Mhyrn.
Korday waved his hand at the base of the road-ramp. A swirl of Procyx-blue fames
spawned again its rippling vertical vortex--the core unwinding like a dilating iris. Mhyrn waited
beyond. Korday turned to look behind him.
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Delt stood a few steps to the side, his reptilian head searching about atop its arching neck.
The world was awake! The minions a billion strong gathered at Kordays feet, kneeling
averting their eyes.
Subtlety, he called to them. For now, subtlety must govern until Procyx has freed
Echion, Great Dragon of Night. He shall then gather the Billion feets before the due days of the
Warriors of Light and WE shall take the galaxy of the Primoids and all that lies beyond! The
Fourth Empire will be the grandest of all!
But for now, patience . . . prudence. We spawn by deceit, grow by subversion. We mislead
while the Empire is yet tender. None but what I summon must come through until the Dragon of
Night Himself shall call you.
Then will come the Day of our great power. We shall rule from the heart of Polyphemus
to the edges of the universe and none will dare to stop us. Korday lifted his fst. WE SHALL
REIGN IN BLOOD AND HORROR! Blood and horror! Blood and horror! Blood and horror!
The chant took up and spread until the air roared with it. Korday surveyed the gathered
masses, stretching off into misted remoteness. The great ship-sized Pullers stretched and failed
hundreds of kilometers into the pitch skies, ravenous.
Soon, he muttered again, But prudence . . . prudence.
He and the Helotoid Delt stepped through the wavering vortex and were gone.
* * *
The small robot 361 waited in the darkness of the vaulting staging hall, anxious to be
gone. It watched the Stormer return to her vigilance, gazing at Mhyrn through the stretched
skin-screen, her hand poised above the control orb in the bloody chalice. She waited, utterly
motionless.
All was still.
361 hovered in silence at the ceiling. Here it had waited, an unwilling but obedient,
invisible part of the dark world for more years than human history could recall.
Now it must go.
It took hours of micro adjustments to cross the several meters it needed to reach the
corner and begin its carefully planned escape routine. Once there at the corner it smeared itself
from the edges of the gritty membrane of a slumbering Helotoid and waited longer. It must not
move visibly too soon.
Hours passed. All grew still. The Stormer had not moved. The robot decided it was time.
It shut down all its power save a trickle in one tiny area of its mind then let itself drop from the
corner.
This was its most dangerous moment.
The Imp hurried over to regard the metallic and plastic wet thing that had fallen from the
wall. It picked it up and studied the thing with uncomprehending eyes. It was nothing, a mere
hunk of rings and struts and globes. Here was something like a spine, but it was nothing shaped
like a human--nothing to defend against, unless . . .. The Imp almost turned to the Stormer for
guidance then remembered the fate of the last Imp to disturb her after the great Lord Lieutenant
had ordered her to watch the screen with unwavering vigilance.
What was this thing? The Imp looked up at the wall, trying to discern from where it
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had fallen. It could not imagine and grew tired of the effort. It carried it over and dumped the
mystery junk into a waste shaft, watching it clatter down the curving chute.
The garbage scow lifted from Focus Seven, falling up toward a satellite quantum
singularity orbiting well beyond safe distance from the nexus world. The scow passed the
unfnished feet of intergalactic ring-shipsmassive, mobile Portal generators with gate
openings large enough to pass entire fotillas of battle cruisers. From inside the scow, the nearly
dead 361 did not see these.
The scow opened its bay doors and let drift its mixed load of waste and trash accumulated
and worn out over a living planets aeons long sleep. The nearest junk twitched and began
spiraling in toward the tiny event horizon, glowing red, stretching then winking beyond the
event horizon in dark sparks heavy with x-rays. The scow pulled away.
It would be a while before the next one arrived.
Finally alone, 361 powered up and began a slow tumble at a plausible tangent away from
the singularity. Albeit it was a powered escape, the tumble should seem a random event to any
casual observer, and the robot hoped no one would think much of it.
Hours passed into days. The subtle escape continued without incident. Far away now, the
robot turned to regard the dark planet. From this distance, it seemed to roil with the dark life of
some world-sized paramecium.
The robot checked its scanners. Nothing was scanning it. Good. 361 powered fully,
warming its P-Q-I drive pod. It made its calculations carefully then rechecked them--a rare
thing for a robot--but it needed to be sure. The Primoids must know. The small robot readied
itself, searched the heavens for a tiny smudge of a star swarm far removed from the dusty lens of
Procyxs galaxy, then made its frst jump to hyperspace.
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Chapter One
Into the Eye
I
G
oren the Terrible dragged his huge arm across his wet forehead, not bothering to wipe the
perspiration he picked up from it anywhere, and he sat forward, puffng under the effort. It
is impossible that you cannot reach them. Jzherillza was with them! You should have been able
to reach her on deep tranz frequencies!
We have tried, sir. There is no response. Her life monitor reads nothing. I fear we must
assume that Jzherillza is dead.
Now wait a minute! Didnt you report to me that Kaskel had found Merins ship at
the rendezvous point on Mhyrn? That he and Jzherillza had actually captured the Most High
Nobleman?
Great and Terrible Onetheir report stated only that they were about to capture a Most
High Noblemanabout to capturesir.
Hmm. Goren grunted, pausing from his tirade long enough to catch his breath, which
took him a full minute. He brooded in silence for a moment while battling dizziness. He watched
the two offcers who were to oversee the task of bringing him the Mhyrnian Nobleman. They
stood nervously, waiting for him to speak again. At last, Goren took several deep breaths and
spoke. Now elaborate on this other matterthis supposition, as you called it. Speak truly! At
the same time you are told by Kaskel that they are about to capture the Most High Nobleman,
you say you have also received reports that our ships at Mhyrn were being destroyed? And that,
by some strange, Mhyrnian power?
The younger of the two offcers swallowed visibly.
Mhyrnian power? They are our allies against the Federationists! his voice echoed in the
hall. Then he spoke very softly. Now I want a clear report. What is the exact status of Kaskels
sortie to Mhyrn? Take care! I want answers, not excuses!
Great one, the higher offcer stepped forward, bowing his head. We make no excuses.
The last transmissions we received from General Kaskels feet were garbled and confused. We
heard terrifed accountssomething about strange golden energies destroying all our ships there
before all communications ended abruptly. We checked with Dualor before making our report to
you. He responded that it might have been the legendary Mhyrnian Golden Death that destroyed
our feet.
The Golden Death?
Yes, Great One. Apparently some mystical power the Most High Noblemen are supposed
to possess. Since that abrupt break in communications, all our attempts to raise General Kaskel
or the feet at Mhyrn have failed. Accordingly, we have sent two LIAR fghters out to investigate.
Goren sat back. The thirty or so shielding devices he always wore about his enormous
frame always clinked when he moved. He tranzed his throne to raise, turn and drift toward the
wide view-port of his enormous fagship.
Procyx shone in upon him. It was the size of a grapefruit, held at arms length, and was
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surrounded by spectacular, flamentary, coherent blue energies that perpetually spewed forth
from it. They were breathtaking to behold and Goren never ceased to wonder at them.
A patrol of thirty of his crack KRAS fghters soared past the fagship. Gorens pride swelled
anew. No Federation ship had or ever could come this near to Procyx and survived. Since Goren
had found the secret of what Procyx was, his entire fotilla of nearly one hundred thousand ships
could, because of numerous successful raiding sorties on worlds doomed to Hypermotility, rest
easily here at the outskirts of the deadly star in perfect safety. None of the other combines could
boast Gorens success rate. He had even absorbed several of them without a battle. None could
stand against him. None! He turned to his offcers again.
Report to me the moment you have discovered the fate of Kaskels feet.
The offcers bowed and left. Goren stubbed one of the hundred buttons adorning his
throne, disappeared in a green brilliance and emerged instantaneously within Dualors quarters.
He could not help smiling with satisfaction each time he used this transference device. He knew
of no one else who had ever obtained one of thesethe Federations most secret transportation
technology.
Dualor, the Mhyrnian, huddled at a table, a comp scanner reading and rereading near
paper-thin plates of pluridium with ancient inscriptions engraved upon them. Dualor was
the most skilled among the Mhyrnian judgesthe keepers of the ancient records. It was from
him that he had learned of the ancient, secret technologies that were supposed to be hidden
upon Mhyrn itselftechnologies so incredible and irresistible that even the Federation City
of RoseStar had fallen before them. Using those powers, Goren planned to begin his serious
conquest of the Galaxy. The desire to see Federation ships exploding and feeing before his
Mhyrnian-enhanced warships thrilled his body with the force of lusting.
What is this I hear about some power called the Golden Death? Goren said evenly.
When Dualor looked up, his face was paleeven ashen. Great One! You startled me. He
rose to bow, but Goren stopped
him with a wave of his hand.
This Golden Death .
. . is this the power that was
used against RoseStar?
Dualor bowed his
head. I am not sure, now.
There is some confusion in
the writings. On Mhyrn are
said to be ancient artifacts of
pluridium reportedly holding
the very essence of power over
Procyx, and that the Most
High Noblemen supposedly
have these artifacts in their
possession. In the matter of
RoseStar . . . I had assumed
that those artifacts had been
used against the city . . . and
yet . . .
Goren shifted in his
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throne, his breaths coming in quiet wheezing. He cleared his throat. The Most High Nobleman
that Merin located and brought to Mhyrn had been living on Ahrgol. Kreskels feet seems to
have been attacked by some strange golden energy. Are you saying that the Most High Noblemen
may have utilized these artifacts there? Is it possible that the Most High Nobleman Merin found
has had possession of these artifacts on Ahrgol all this time? If so, why didnt he report that to
us?
Dualor shook his head, perplexed.
If the Most High Nobleman does have the power of the Golden Death, why would he fght
uswe who are also enemies of the Federation? I do not understand that. Goren wiped the
perspiration from his forehead again. Perhaps he does not understand our desire to fully avenge
your people against the Federation.
Perhaps, Dualor said.
All right. Let us assume that the Most High Nobleman has possession of the artifacts . . .
Dualor shook his head. For our sakes I pray that he does notnot yet.
Why?
We have no power that can stand against the Golden Death. No one does. If the Golden
Death is being used through the sacred artifacts, it has the power to destroy Procyx itself. Should
he choose to turn those powers against us . . .
Goren thought back to moments earlier when he had gazed at Procyx from his throne
room. Would the Most High Nobleman use these artifacts against Procyx the moment he
received them?
I believe he would, Great One. It is his fate in this life, and he would want to end the
destructions of Procyx, as the prophecies demand.
Goren smiled suddenly. Look, then! It is obvious! Dont you see? The Most High Nobleman
does not yet have the artifacts.
Dualor frowned. How do you know this, Great One?
Procyx yet shines.
Ah, yes, I see, Great One. It would seem that, as you say, he does not yet have the
artifacts. But if he is truly a Most High Nobleman, he most likely knows where the artifacts are
being kept today. When he obtains them, it will only be a matter of time before he uses them.
Do you know where they are kept?
Dualor shook his head. Until the days of Ambylor the Martyr, none of us Judges knew.
When Ambylor sought them at the great shrine, they were goneapparently removed by one of
the Most High Noblemen of those times and hidden elsewhere. The Judges have secretly sought
that information for centuries now. None of the Most High Noblemen have revealed iteven
under torture.
All right! All right! I dont like all these ifs and what ifs! Let us assume that he does not
yet have the artifacts but that he does command a degree of the Golden Death. Agreed?
Dualor nodded once.
So tell me this. What power is there that can not only stand against the Golden Death,
but overpower it?
I told you, Great One . . .
You said that the Golden Death, when used through the sacred artifacts, is irresistible. If
it is not used through the sacred artifacts, is it still irresistible?
I cannot say. I must assume, since the artifacts are needed to make the Golden Death
irresistible, that without them there are limits to its power.
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Yes. Yes! I concur. Now, from the legends, tell me of Echions powers. Might we not call
upon them to overcome the Golden Death?
Dualor stood abruptly, knocking several sheets of inscribed pluridium off the table in the
motion. We must not tamper with the powers of Echion!
But Jzherillza has used the Black Arts to win us many victories! Now, unfortunately,
there is a better than good chance that she has failed against the Golden Death, for it appears
that she has been destroyed along with a hundred of my best vessels and thousands of my best
troops. If we are to subdue the Most High Nobleman before he can obtain the artifacts, we must
utilize a greater degree of power from the Black Arts. Is that not so?
It would seem so. But I would recommend other methods.
And why is that?
The ancient records speak of a balancean equilibrium between the Arts of Light and
the Black Arts. The danger to us resides in the possibility of greater power from the Arts of Light
being used against us if we increase our usage of the Black Arts.
Goren frowned.
Great Onelet me put it this way. If one is raised to a higher level, then the other is freed
to match it.
Goren thought on this for a time, then said. But has not the Golden Death just now
appeared? Are we not, now, free to match it?
Now Dualor paused, looking down. After a time, he looked again upon Goren the Terrible.
It may be that Jzherillzas mastery of the Federationist tranzing powers through the Black
Arts that has brought us such wealthit may be that the usage of those Black Arts is what has
allowed the appearance of the Golden Death!
Or it may be that the appearance of the Golden Death will allow us to reach even higher
levels of power beneath the Black Artsis that not also possible?
Dualor hesitated.
You have told me that there are deep and ancient secrets, Goren whispered hungrily. I
remember! You have told me of a great armada, invincible beneath the power of the Black Arts,
hidden within Procyx itself. The Billion Fleets, they are called. I would that you tell me more of
the Billion Fleets.
Dualor turned away, his dark robes making him seem to almost disappear in the gloom of
the study. His white hair made it seem as if his head were foating in the darkness.
Speak! Goren shouted. It is my command!
Great One . . .
Tell me!! His voice screeched with such vibrancy that the very walls rang with the
reverberations.
Dualor had not seen Gorens swollen hand poised over one of the controls of his console,
nor did Dualor suspect that the impressive, fearful dread that threatened to paralyze him might
be artifcial. Instead, the Mhyrnian fell to his knees.
Mercy! his voice shook with terror. Do not destroy me!
Goren took a deep breath, shifted his hand across the console and spoke softly. Tell me
what I wish to know. He watched with satisfaction as Dualor clutched at his chest, his eyes shut
tight. After a very few moments, he nodded quickly.
In the ancient daysthe Era of the Great DawnEchion ruled half this galaxy. He did so
with ease, for the government of every world within his greatest empire, the Third Empire, was
fercely loyal to him. This was because of the Black Arts.
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Where did he learn these arts? Goren asked, sitting forward.
He did not learn them for he was the author of them. Some stories say that he fell from a
great, high heaven down into ours. Others say that he arose from a hell where he had tampered
with the very forces of life, creating great and terrible creatures that obeyed him without
thought.
In those days, the Brotherhood of Light stood between him and total domination of the
galaxythe Brotherhood of Light with its own Arts and powersamong them the Golden Death.
Using all the power of half the galaxy, and for a thousand years, Echion built himself a
great armada of ships. He personally endowed each of these vessels with a full measure of the
Black Arts. He also raised up terrible, invincible warriorscreatures that were a blending of
human, ferce predator and machine. Upon these he also bestowed incredible powerpower
to survive, regeneratebeings with unshakable courage and loyalty to himeach cloaked in
an invisible armor of sorcery that could kill an opponent by fear alone. A single warrior was
said to have been capable of conquering and then ruling even the most advanced technological
culturesa continent at a time, inhabited by hundreds of millions of people.
Goren felt a gnawing churn of excitement within him, making him squirm around a bit in
his throne.
Each of Echions magnifcent warships and fghters was controlled by one or more of these
eugenic cyborgsthese Invincibles. His armies were made of thema hundred thousand strong
in each feetand there were a billion such feets. And within the feets were war machines and
vesselsthousands of fghters of incredible powerRazor ships, they were called. All in all, each
feet of the billion feets consisted of a hundred massive warships, and each of them was outftted
with a hundred Razor ships. Besides that, each of the Billion Fleets boasted a hundred thousand
troops.
What happened to them? Goren said, his throat dry from excitement.
As Echion was preparing to move against the Brotherhood of Light, the Primoidsbeings
of light and power equally great to Echionovercame him in a single night. He was cast away
into some distant heaven . . .
And the Billion Fleets?
They were imprisoned in the in-between placethe limbo that serves as a buffer between
all the myriad universes that existperhaps what is now called hyperspacewhat you have
identifed as the true nature of the Eye of the Procyx.
Who imprisoned the feets? The Primoids?
No. It was Echion who placed the billion feets there. Legend has it that in the very act of
being cast away he hid the feets between universes. He put them to sleep and vowed, at last, to
return, wake the Billion Fleets and call them from their hiding place. He swore a revenge oath
by the Creator that he, too, would sweep across the galaxy in a single night, destroying both the
Brotherhood of Light and the Primoids. Echion has not been heard of since.
Now let me see. Your legends say that Procyx is the Eye of Echion, do they not?
Procyx is ascribed to Echion only in the times of Griefthe days we live in now, for
example. In such days the Eye of Echion is also called the Light of Echion. In Mhyrnese, Eye also
means light, or power.
So only in these days does the Eye of the Procyx mean the Eye of Echion. Yes?
Yes. These are days of Grief for the galaxy.
Then what does Procyx mean? It is also called the Eye of the Procyxyes?
The word Procyx has many defnitions, the exact meaning depending upon the context
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of its use. Some of the meanings of Procyx are Heaven, Hell, Power, Light, the Black Dragon,
Weakness, the Great Doorway, the Creator, Prison, Blindness, All sight, Birth, Death . . .
Goren cut him off with a wave of his hand. So you say the Billion Fleets reside within
Procyxnowat this moment? Actually inside it?
That is the legend. They sleep within the Eye, waiting for Echion to call them forth to
conquer the galaxy.
Goren plunged his squat fngers through his long, coarse hair. It could well be! It must be
that this legend was true! Procyx was an inter-dimensional rift that passed through hyperspace.
The Golden Death had undoubtedly destroyed his best crews and vessels back on Mhyrnso it
existed, and Goren knew of the reality of the Black Arts. So if the Golden Death existed, why not
the Billion Fleets?
What did Echion look like? Goren asked after nearly a full minute of brooding.
I do not know his true appearance, Dualor looked weak, drained and pale as he
answered. His title is the Dragon of Night. This much is known: He was a polymorpha shape
changer. Oh, yes! A man yes, but capable of disguising himself perfectlyassuming any shape he
chose for any purpose.
Goren thought for a moment. Then he might appear to his troops in any form he chose?
He would certainly be able to do so. But I would assume that he probably would have
chosen a specifc, singular appearance for them aloneone that could not be imitatedeven by
another possessing great spells beneath the Black Arts. With such powers to be commanded,
I can imagine he would be constantly on guard against treachery, even from within his own
ranks.
This Goren understood only too well. The reason for his own throne, his personal Guard
made up of fve thousand soldiers and the myriad ornaments he always wore, was to provide him
invincible protection. It had saved him from many attempted coups, mutinies and even wars.
Now, he felt sure these devices could serve him to the utmost in the endeavor he now considered.
Is there anything more I should know from the legends about the Billion Fleets?
Dualor swallowed. Goren saw a tiny jewel on the arm of his throne illuminate. He barely
resisted a smile, waiting for Dualor to speak.
There is nothing more, the Mhyrnian said, looking away.
You are lying, but I perceive it is from fear. Fear of what?
Dualor fell into his chair like a sack of beans. He shook his head slowly.
You need not fear me, Goren said softly. The jewel was still lit.
I do not fear you, Dualor said, looking uphis face resolved. Normally, such an answer
would have infuriated Goren. Now, he only waited, watching the jewel. It did not darken.
What do you fear, if not me?
The Twothe Warriors of Light who are prophesied to come. They shall be given power
to overthrow Echion himself. If you should do what you are considering, it may bring them here,
and then all who follow the Black Arts need fear and tremble.
The light in the jewel went out. Goren suffered a food of dread at Dualors words. He had
never heard of the Warriors of Light. He took a deep breath and, controlling his voice, spoke.
When are they said to come, his hands moved shakily across three controls of his console.
. . . These Warriors of Light?
Dualor shook his head. In the dark days of Echions escapedays of war, horror and
bloodshed on a galactic scale. The Warriors shall come from the far heavens and even all the
powers of the Black Arts shall not be able to stop them.
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So say the prophecies.
Not before? Goren said. Only when Echion is freed?
That is the prophecy.
Goren smiled, transferring himself out of Dualors study.
Dualor now turned his eyes to the sacred records before him. Only when Echion is freed
or, perhaps, one posing as Echion? One able to stir the Billion Fleetsto sweep across the galaxy
in a single night?
Goren emerged in the audience room where he had interrogated his two offcers on
Kaskels sortie. His frame quivered beneath the excitement. Procyx shone in upon him. As he
regarded it, it was as though he could feel the presence of the Billion Fleets withinsleeping
waiting.
I am not Echion, Goren said, satisfed. The Warriors will not come. That is not the
prophecy. But I shall wake the billion feetsand we shall sweep across the galaxy in a single
night!!
* * *
Were ready, Great One, a woman said, bowing to Goren. To see him out of his throne
was so rare an event that everyone around him had trouble not staring. He held a remote in his
left hand that would transfer him to the immediate safety of his throne at his slightest whim.
Guards stood three deep at the door, their depolarizers buzzing at full power.
Taelkawn, his chief of staff, spoke quietly into Gorens ear. Hers were the only remains
that could be recognizedand that is because her body had been placed in a stasis ark for return
here.
Goren turned to him. You mean she did not die in battle?
She was apparently dead before the battle began. Even so, her death was violent and
unlike anything we have ever seen. I must assume that one of the reasons Kaskel put her in
stasis was so that we might study the phenomenon hereperhaps understand it.
And you are sure? Kaskel, himself, is dead?
The entire feet is gone. The wreckage of our ships could be seen everywhere across a
great valley next to an enormous mountain the Mhyrnians call Markeeome . . .
Spare me the details. Did no one survive?
No one, sir. I am sorry. Taelkawn backed slowly away into the shadows. The room was
dimly lit. Laid across the body was a dark, iridescent fag with a jeweled dragon in black upon a
glistening crimson shield. Goren swallowed hard, pulling the fag back to expose the head of the
body beneath it.
He barely recognized Jzherillza. Her normally puffy, full face seemed incredibly gaunt. Its
blistered skin stretched across her skull like an elastic mask. It looked like brittle rice paper. It
was as if every molecule of water had been suddenly, violently drawn out of her. Where her eyes
should be there were sunken charred maws that seemed to go back forever into darkness. Goren
felt a fush of horror and anger surge through his enormous frame.
The shape of her head didnt seem right. He reached out to move her matted, scorched
hair aside. The feel of her cold skin was like sun-cracked, powdered leather. When her hair
was pushed aside, Goren saw that the skull was collapsed inward. But it did not look crushed,
as from an impact. It looked more like melted plastic. He pulled her hair forward again and,
removing the fag farther down, took the amulet she wore around her neck. A moment later he
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replaced the fag over the body.
I shall see you avenged, Goren said, transferring himself back to the safety of his throne.
I shall personally destroy the man who did this to you! His hands moved across the consoles
of the throne. His voice rose to a terrible rumbling and all in the room cowered before him. Do
you hear me, God and all you Primoids and Mestrates?! I will throw you down and rule in the
Heavens above you, and you shall burn forever and never be consumed!! Goren stubbed one of
the jewels on his throne and all in the room fell to unconsciousness except him.
He shook with excitement, holding the amulet before his bloated face and then, his eyes
burning, he raised it above his head.
Korday! he called. Master of the Black Arts from the Far HeavensI call you here! I
submit myself and all my people to you that I may wield your power and destroy all that you
hate and rule this galaxy, keeping it safe for the return of our common Master, Echion the Dark.
Come to me, I beseech you in the name of the Dragon of Night!!
Silence. Nothing.
Ramm! he tried again. Great Queen of Powercome unto me this hour and I will fulfll
any desire within my power to grant! Come and endow me with all things that I may avenge the
death of this, your daughter-servant Jzherillza!
Still nothing. Goren took a deep breath and put the amulet back on himself, waiting.
Nothing. Near the door, someone stirred. Goren touched the control that would blanket the
room with a fresh dose of J rays and all fell silent again.
An hour later, Goren cursed loudly and transferred himself into Jzherillzas quarters.
He hardly expected to fnd Dualor there. Hundreds of ancient, inscribed metal plates and
old, old manuscripts lay stacked hurriedly in the center of the room. The heavy Mhyrnian stood
over them holding a buzzing depolarizer. The moment he saw Goren, he put the weapon down,
shutting it off.
What are you doing? Goren said after a moment.
Dualor shook his head. I . . . I was guarding the records, Great One. Now that you are
here, He started toward the door. There is no need . . .
Wait.
Dualor stopped, hesitated a moment, then turned to face Goren.
From whom were you guarding it?
These are priceless . . .
From me, perhaps? Gorens hands moved across his consoles, resting casually above a
row of buttons.
For you, Great OneFOR you!
It is well that I came when I did.
Dualor stood uneasily, unnaturally stilltrying to appear calm.
Now tell me, Mhyrnian. Can you read these?
Dualor regarded the pile for a moment, then bowed his head. I fear I cannot.
You are one of the Judges, Gorens middle fnger poised above a single button. It was
adorned with two rings of star sapphires set in pluridium. Goren took a deep breath and
continued, the slightest wheeze accompanying each word. I know you are among the greatest
scholars of Mhyrnand you say you cannot read these? Try, please.
Dualor nervously obeyed, picking up a thin plate of pluridium inscribed with symbols and
pictures. Goren allowed him several minutes of study before speaking again. Well?
Some of the symbols I know. Others I do not. The Black Arts are far older than Mhyrn. I
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do not think . . .
Goren wasnt listening. At least, he wasnt watching, for his eyes, now accustomed to the
dimness of Jzherillzas quarters, saw that the room was lined with shelves. Many of them held
metal plates and scrolls like those piled in the center of the room.
. . . That I wouldnt know where to start. Dualors words brought Gorens attention back
to the pile and the Mhyrnian.
If that is so, then how did you know? Goren asked, evenly.
Know? Know what, Great One?
How did you know which records you wanted to destroy and which not, unless . . . his
beefy middle fnger came down upon the button. . . . Unless you can read them.
Dualor collapsed to his knees in a gurgling moan, his hands clutching his ears. Goren let
the Mhyrnian consider the remark for a full minute before releasing him. The moment he lifted
his fnger, Dualor fell to the foor, sobbing.
Now listen to me, you great, fat barbarian! I know you were trying to destroy the records.
I am no fool! I was prepared to let you live, but now I am not so sure. Mhyrnian Judges are as
common as strumpetsand just as easily bought. I will yet give you one last chance. If I sense
treachery, your death will not be so pleasant as what you have just felt!
Dualor looked up at Goren. His eyes had dark bruises beneath them and were already
beginning to swell.
I want you to tell me everything you can about Echion, Goren leaned forward. I want to
know what he looked like to his troops; what he wore and even how often he brushed his teeth, if
you can discover that! And I want to know how I can summon up all the powers Jzherillza used
and more. I assume that that information is what you were trying to destroyis it not?
Dualor only nodded yes.
Goren sat back, studying the Mhyrnian curiously.
Why, Dualor? I have treated you wellgiven you everything you ever asked of me.
Have we not, together, repaid the injustice of the Federation against the people of your world?
Have I not supplied your people with weapons and ships with which they can fght Federation
Imperialism? Speak!
It is so, Dualor gurgled, his voice thick as though stricken with a disease.
Then why? Now Gorens voice was as gentle as a childs and equally as full of innocent
hurt. Of all my staff, I would have suspected you least. Why?
Dualor took several deep breaths. He would not look at Goren. Without the Golden Death,
Procyx will destroy all worldseverything. I feared lest the intervention of the Black Arts should
prevent salvation for the universe.
But we have prospered beneath Procyx, Goren spread his thick arms and a sweeping
gesture. We are safe from its powers. It is the Eye of Echion. Dont you see? If we should align
ourselves to him, would we not prosper further? How could the very power that fuels Procyxthe
Black Artshow could they destroy those who direct them?
The Black Arts do not fuel Procyx.
But Procyx is the Eye of Echionthe Power of Echion! You said . . .
It is the called the Light of Echionthe place where the Power of Echion waits and
sleepsthe Billion Fleets. The Golden Death alone has power over Procyxonly the Golden
Death. If we destroy its agents, the Holy One who will command it, then we eventually destroy
ourselves.
Goren sat back, suddenly uneasy. Is there only one who can destroy Procyx using the
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artifacts?
It is said that a Holy Man and an Infdel shall destroy Procyx through the sacred artifacts
by the power of the Golden Death. That is all we know for sure.
Cannot any sorcerer of suffcient skill command Procyx into destruction using the
artifacts? Are not the powers of the Black Arts greater than any power in the universe?
The legends say only the Golden Death . . .
Yes, yesI know! Goren held up his hand. Then it appears that we shall have to
conquer this Holy Man and hold him captive until we need him. Surely that can be accomplished
using the powers of the Black Arts.
But Jzherillza commanded the Black Arts far better than anyone hereand she is dead!
I intend to master, then unleash the full strength of the Black Arts! I shall succeed where
Jzherillza failed, and when we have the Holy Man captive, we can then call upon him to remove
Procyx at a time of our choosingafter we have taken all we want and stand as rulers over the
whole universe.
Now, Goren shifted about in his hovering throne. Begin work. You must have had time
to search. Surely Jzherillza made a computer index of these records . . .
I have found nothing. If she did, Great One, she must have hidden it well. Dualor
staggered shakily to his feet, bowing his head before Goren. I assure you, I have found nothing.
Then I see no choice. You will have to read and translate all the records here for me in
her place. I need all of her wisdom, now. I want you to create a restricted access computer fle
of all the appropriate records. Then you are to upload it into an RNA implant for me. It is to
contain everything there is to know about Echionspells, Dawn Era history and so forth. You
understand me?
Dualor nodded in silence.
How long will that take?
Weeks. Perhaps months, I fear. Great One, I beseech youdo not do this thing . . .
Weeks! Months! Goren took several deep breaths against the dizziness of his excitement.
Would that be true even under the infuence of Kynessotope?
Dualors face froze in fear. Kynessotope? Great One, that drug is mythical!
I have some for such an occasion.
It must have been very expensive.
A kings ransomhalf a worlds plunder.
Do you not wish to reserve it for . . . for something more deserving of its price?
I have found a deserving use in you.
Dualors voice cracked. I . . . I . . . Have you not heard? It is said to be fatal.
You have betrayed me, Dualor. Do not pretend otherwise. Kynessotope is only often fatal.
Would you not prefer only the chance of death from exhaustion under Kynessotope or certain
death from execution?
Dualors face twitched and he bowed deeply. As always, you are most merciful, Great
One! When the Mhyrnians face turned up toward Goren, his eyes were swollen shut and a
single trickle of blood ran down his right temple from hair that appeared slightly singed.
Goren tranzed for a dosage of the metabolism acceleration drug to be brought in. Dont
you see, Dualor? If you do this thing, it shall bring forth the hour of the Federations greatest
humiliation at last! For such a noble dispensation of justice, surely you would be willing to work
under the enhancements of Kynessotopeis that not so?
Dualor bowed his head in obedience. A moment later, the doors to Jzherillzas quarters
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opened and a medic appeared carrying a cup of fuid. The medic was accompanied by two security
guards. Dualor took the cup with shaking hands and drank it quickly. Then, picking up the plate
he had examined earlier, he walked over to a computer terminal hovering above Jzherillzas
desk. He sat, took a deep breath and, running his fnger across the paper-thin, pluridium plate,
mumbled low words through the terminal to the powerful computer mainframe located elsewhere
in Gorens feet.
Dont be so gloomy! Goren said kindlyeven encouraginglyand then he settled back,
watching Dualor work. You will not regret what I have asked of you when you stand as King of
Mhyrn in days to comeif you survive!
As Goren watched, the Kynessotope took effect. It was like watching a video-graph begin
to accelerate faster and faster. Goren raised all his thrones shields, watching Dualor become a
blur. Record after record from the stack the Mhyrnian had made to be destroyed disappeared
behind the blur only to reappear in a discard pile next to the computer terminal.
After a time, Goren opened a general tranz to the whole vessel and beyond, selecting the
galaxy-wide network for his great announcement. It was an act he had only done once before in
his quarter century career as a Combine President. His tranzed words, amplifed back through
the walls, spoke with just the right blend of subliminal emotion enhancement.
Attention to all feet commanders and staff. This is Goren. I command all vessels to
disengage their current sorties and return to our feets here at Procyx. This order is to be obeyed
without delay.
And then his voice soared with excitement.
Come home, and we shall soon command the very armies of Echion himself! Think of it!
The minions of the Great Dragon of Night as our servants and allies! Prepare yourselves.
He watched the blur of Dualor working at the translations and compilations. Goren shook
his head a little, chiding himself for, again, being too generous to his undeserving staff. He felt
sure that later he would regret letting Dualor live now. But then no one else on his staff knew
the mythology better than the Mhyrnian. And with Jzherillza dead, could anyone else translate
the records but Dualor? Well, perhaps when the Mhyrnian was fnished and if he survived, Goren
could still choose to put Dualor aside any time he desired. Still, it was a pity, but it could not be
helped. With that in mind, he decided, with more than a little uneasiness, that he could never
trust the Mhyrnian to be alone againand certainly never alone here againnot under any
circumstances. He tranzed as much to the guard nearest the Mhyrnian who, on hearing it, looked
up and nodded obedience.
Outside, the frst of Gorens impressive feets were arriving. He was anxious to go above
and watch them return.
I I
The Holy Man and the Infdel are on Mhyrn! Sentegor all but shouted. Never had a
conviction of anything burned so powerfully within him. The answering outburst from the
Council was not what he expected. It was a mixture of angry debate from the gallery of Judges,
derision and confusion from the Court of the physicians and guardians of the law, and stunned
silence from the Quorum of Chiefs. Only six were present. Merrimoor, the High Chief, was still
off world, apparently on business. Several minutes of this noise passed before one of the seven
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Chiefs regained the foor. When order returned he sat back, looking down at the small Mhyrnian
with a wan smile.
Are there others who witnessed the use of the Golden Death you claim to have seen?
Sentegors voice cracked. Do not the scriptures say that one, and only one, shall come
from among the Judges to prepare the way of the Holy Man and the Infdel?
And you are that one? one of the doctors called out from the Gallery. You are but a
child. If the Holy Man and the Infdel were to come today, would they not choose one of the High
Judges, at least, to announce so important an event? A child, indeed! What you have seen is a
deception of the Dragon of Night. It is his Eye that gazes down upon us from the heavens. He
will surely tempt and torment us with a false Holy Man and Infdel. Is THAT not written in the
Holy Scriptures?
More anxious deliberation boiled up. The Chief held up his hand for silence, looking down
at Sentegor with an expression the young Mhyrnian could not exactly read. Tell us, please. Are
you the only one to have seen evidence of the Golden Death being used? You have found no one
else to verify your story?
I did not think I would need to have verifcation. These are the terrible days of Grief. The
time of Salvation is upon us. It is time for our redemption. He turned around to face the Council
at large. Brothersfriendscan you not see this?
One of the older Judges stood. What I see is a strapping Judge, ambitious to reach beyond
his years and rule over us. Is that not the role of the Judge who should proclaim the coming of
the Holy Man and the Infdel? He spoke now in verse, using the characteristic pomposity that
had recently come into popularity among the high teachers and Judges. And the Judge shall
himself be holy, an oracle as of old in the days of the Dawn. And he shall stand over the world to
shield it until redemption has come.
I do not believe that to mean a position of rulership, Sentegor answered quickly. But one
of protection, even as a mother stands over her children in times of danger!
Laughter rippled softly across the Council. The older Judge pointed his fnger at Sentegor.
His voice struggled beneath an anger the young Sentegor could not understand. How dare you
interpret the scriptures! How DARE you! Child Blasphemer!
I do not blaspheme! Sentegor pleaded with them. Do not the scriptures also record that
in the days of Grief, there should be a falling awayand that one should be raised up by the
Creator to . . .
The days of falling away ended with the death of Ambylor the Martyr!
But those days were only the beginning of the days of Grief . . .
The outburst of rage that erupted drowned out Sentegors words. He watched in horror
as several of the physicians and guardians leapt from their seats and rushed towards him. He
turned and fed as fast as he could run, pushing out of the great hall that stood just outside
the mountain-sized, cone-shaped structure that was the Temple of Zorl, and out into the night.
He felt the sting of a stone hitting him on the shoulder and several more hurtle past him as he
rushed down the thoroughfare. He darted between buildings, running farther and farther into
the sleeping city. Soon, the commotion fell away to occasional laughter mingled with curses, but
Sentegor continued running. His chest burned from the exertion. His mouth was dryhis head
pounding, and still he ran.
At last, he broke from the narrow streets and closely huddled buildings into the citys
expansive parkway honoring Ambylor. He saw the great, pluridium statue of the Martyr
standing against the stars, bathed in rose-colored brilliance. Fountains splashed noisily all about
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the shrine. Sentegor ran to the nearest one, falling to his knees, panting and dizzy. He splashed
his face with cool water and looked back for signs of pursuit. Only darkness and quiet resided.
Convinced, fnally, that he was safe, Sentegor sat on the edge of the fountain and allowed himself
the luxury of tears.
Perhaps they were right. Sentegor was only ffteen. The rage of humiliation fared up
within him again as he relived the Councils ridicule of him with vivid recollection. Why had
they done this to him? He was a Judge. He had seen the Golden Fires and feets of dark ships
exploding and falling into the valley. He had seen the Most High Nobleman, encircled with
dazzling, golden, glorious fres and the Federationist with himsurely no one could argue that
Federationists were Infdels of the frst order!destroying the dark ships of the Dragon of Night.
Hadnt he seen the insignia of the Dark Dragon on the vessels?
More tears fowedtears of bitternessof being misunderstood and even censured for
doing the right thingand by those very persons who should have supported himpraised
himrejoiced that the hour of salvation had fnally come. But no. It was not so. Things were not
as they should be.
Or were they?
Could a young, apprentice Judge really be the one chosen to announce the coming of the
Holy Man and the Infdel and then stand as a watching guardian above the world until Procyx
fnally disappeared into the far heavens? Now, the idea did seem foolish. Perhaps they were right.
Perhaps he was a fool! He fell to his knees and pleaded silently with the Creator for helpfor
guidancefor somethinganything!
Nothing came to him. No answersno feelings, except continuing despair.
Sentegor stood after a time, looking up at the statue of Ambylor. The Great Martyr stood
holding a sphere and a plate, looking heavenward with an expression of reverence.
And then a dense, stifing darkness seemed to fall over the boy. Sentegor struggled for
breath, for the oppression seemed to grip cruelly at the very center of his chest. He staggered,
falling to the ground beneath its incredible force. Everything spun around him. His chest felt
caved in, as if he could not breathe. He groped against a pain that reached far beyond his body
into his mind. This was no mere physiological sensation. It went far deeper than that. It was a
horrible, smothering feelinga heavy, crushing foreboding that scintillated with panic. Sentegor
managed to pull in a short breath. The pain of it stabbed like a knife in his chest. He felt the
grip of this darkness tighten quickly on him again as he let the air out and fought for another
breaththen another and another. His head ached with spiraling twinges. All Sentegor could
think of was escape. He struggled with all his strength to stand, making as if to run.
Do not go, a deep, quiet, even voice spoke from behind him. He turned to see an
impressive, broad-shouldered Mhyrnian Priest dressed in brilliant, red robes that all but glowed
from some Inner Light. These were the robes of a Most High Nobleman of the god Zorl. This
Sentegor knew from the writings.
You have done well, the Most High Nobleman said smiling slightly. It is all right. All is
well, for I have come at last.
The crushing heaviness fell away, but not all, and now a new sensation washed over him
a heady sense of thrill. The thrill was real enoughundeniable. It was a powerful, emotional
force that was undeniably compelling and yet . . . and yet, it felt, somehow, wrongincomplete.
Something about it . . . was it . . . it felt forcedperhaps even rancid below the surface
outwardly dazzling but stale if one could strip away the exterior to see insidestale or worse.
No! This was not right! He tried and tried, but could not put his fnger on exactly what
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was wrong. Or was it just he? Was he so far out of communion with the Creator that the best he
could feel, now, was a stale sense of incompleteness? The dark heaviness stabbed through him
again at that thought. Where was this oppression coming from? The Creator? If this were the
Holy Man, should not such fears be absent in His presencegone? Shouldnt the thrill he had felt
only moments before be a deep sense of complete joy, rather than just a thrill edged with . . . with
decay? It should bemust beshouldnt it?
Who are you? Sentegor ventured after a moment, his voice trembling.
The man smiled. You know mesurely. Kneel before me, for I am He whose coming you
have foretold. You have done well in announcing my coming, and for that I shall lift you high
above all others, and you shall rule at my side.
Sentegor began to kneel but something stopped him. He looked up into the eyes of this
man. But where is the other? he spoke. The Infdel?
The Most High Noblemans expression fell. What does that matter? He will come soon
enough. Kneel before me, little one.
Sentegor stood, backing away. You are not the One!
Kneel before me! The mans voice rose to a thunderous roar. I am the Holy Man!
You must go before me, proclaiming that I come! Now! Raise your voice from the tops of every
buildingspare notlet no one sleep for the sound of it! I have come at last!
Sentegor ran in terror.
I shall fnd another! the voice cried after him, the pitch of his voice veering wildly. You
are nothing but a foolish child!
Sentegor ran towards the gates of the city, tears coming again. There was an explosion
next to him. He turned to see the holy man encircled with fre, bolts of energy leaping from his
hands at Sentegor.
I am the Holy Man! Bow down before me!
But Sentegor ran on, for the fre encircling this man was merely fre. The golden energies
that had encircled the true Holy Man Sentegor had seen had been dazzlingpainful to look
upon, and had at that same instant flled Sentegor with an incredibly full, sweet, burning
rightnessjoyeven peace. It had been an overwhelming certainty that the man whom
Sentegor saw then, the man whose glory destroyed these dark vessels of the Black Dragon as the
Prophecies statedthis holy man had been truly imbued with power from the Creator.
Here and now, this man falling ever farther behind Sentegor who hurled mere fre at him
had no such glory, nor was his presence sweet. While tingling with some stirring excitement that
was, in the end, false and darkly appealing, it seemed to speak to baser instincts and desires. By
comparison it was, albeit beguiling, gaping in its emptinesseven cankering.
Sentegor prayed to the Creator for protection as he ran, and never once did fre touch him.
I I I
The work of translation and compilation had taken only fve hours under the infuence
of Kynessotope, but Dualor lay dead in Jzherillzas quarters. His form looked starvedan
incredible change from the corpulence he had once had. Goren saw how the dark robes hung
almost comically over the loose skin that covered a body emaciated beyond the power to maintain
life. In Dualors hand there was a fnal plate of pluridium, clutched in the bony fngers and held
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tight against the dead Mhyrnians chest. Goren tranzed one of the security guards to go and take
it from the bodys grasp. The guard obeyed, bringing the pluridium artifact over to him. Goren
examined it. On one side there were just rows of hieroglyphs, but when he turned it over, Goren
saw an elaborate, engraved drawing.
It was a scene, obviously involving Procyx. Goren studied it for a time, trying to
comprehend it. After a while, he put the plate aside and frowned at the still form of Dualor. He
tried to access this plate from the RNA implant the Mhyrnian had prepared for him. Again and
again he tried to remember this record but could not. So, Dualor had held out on him. In anger,
he fred a bolt of energy at the remains, which exploded in a powdery spray. He picked up the
plate again, trying to make sense of it on his own. The very fact that Dualor had withheld it from
his RNA implant in the face of death led Goren to suspect that it must hold some importancea
fnal act of defance, but what kind of defance?
This plate obviously had no reference to any of the spells or powers of the Black Arts.
It was clearly Mhyrnianperhaps it merely contained some elusion to the Procyx Myth that
Dualor cherished. Yes, perhaps that was it. Among Jzherillzas effects he must have found an
artifact on the Procyx Myth that he cherishedone that did not apply to the mastery of the
Black Arts. Well, let him have his little treasure in death. Why not? Goren was known for his
generosity, even to the condemned. Yes, yesthat was all this was. And yet a subtle feeling of
uneasiness persisted. Suddenly Goren experienced the distinct impression that he was being
shown something of importancesomething that if he chose now to abandon his plans, he
might yet be safe. That if he chose to proceed, his fate was, at best, uncertain; at worst, doomed.
Grunting humorlessly, Goren stashed the plate under his throne and, rising with some effort,
climbed the steps of the waiting holo-dais.
It was as if Goren stood at the center of a vast hall. He could see and be seen by his feet
commanders, ships captains and crew ten million strong, holo-transmitted all around him,
looking like a vast sea of worshipping humanity. They cheered in a deafening roar at the sight
of him, chanting a cadenced praise and boastfully shaking their fsts over their heads in time to
the chants. Goren smiled, amused and basking in the adoration of his troops. How he loved them
alleach one. He raised his hand for silence, which came immediately.
Good, good friends, he called to them with a fare of artifcially enhanced benefcence
pumped into the transmission. The hour of our fnal victory has comeat long last!
A deafening cheer erupted from his followers. He smiled again, raising his hand for quiet.
I have assumed all the powers of the Black Arts which our loyal martyr Jzherillza possessed
before her death, and moreeven all the powers of the Black Arts.
He pointed at Procyx as it blazed above them all. Procyx has shielded us for decades
protected us from the Federationists. But Procyx shall now endow us with powers beyond
anything we, or the Federationists, have ever imagined possible.
A new cheering arose then fell silent beneath Gorens uplifted hand.
Within Procyx itself reside a billion feets of a hundred vessels eachsleepingall
awaiting the return of the Dragon of Night. I stand before you today in His placein the place of
the Dragon of Night, even Echion. Behold my glory! He shouted, and with the touch of a fnger
upon the amulet that he had taken from Jzherillzas body, Gorens frame fashed into that of a
tall, muscular, handsome warrior. He was dressed in a simple, black uniformhis hair white, his
eyes piercing. All about him, bolts of black energy coursed and fowed in a dark circle.
The dark glories fell away. Goren smiled at the audible gasp from his troops.
I am Echion now! he shouted, holding up his hand, fst clenched. Suddenly the room
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exploded with cheerscheers bordering on frenzy. Victory! he shouted again and again as a
new cheer erupted.
You all have your orders for feet and vessel disposition. When we awake our sleeping
brothers, we shall command as many ships as there are stars in the galaxy. This is the day of
our glory. Turn, now, he pointed to Procyx. Invincibles, you shall accompany me frst. Raise
your Hypermotility buffers to full power and let us, the greatest and boldest warriors of all time,
plunge with full confdence into the very center of the Eye of the Procyx!
He turned to the commander of his fagship and nodded once. The holo-transmissions
of the feet commanders and crew faded away. He stepped down and returned to his throne. It
lifted to its usual hovering and glided forward toward the wide view-screen. Goren watched with
eagerness.
A thousand of his crack battle transports, surrounded by tens of thousands of fghters,
began pouring toward Procyx. He watched the dazzling, blue coherent orb grow larger and larger
as his fagship joined the approach. There were only the slightest of buffetings as his ship passed
through the countless flamentary wanderings of Procyxian energy that surrounded the dazzling
enigma. A massive tentacle of brilliant blue energy loomed dead ahead. Shining sparkles of
varying colors wandered within its permutating, intricate fabric, each blazing in coherent light
and each pulsating with its own, unique rhythm. Some were fung off as the prominence
twisted and wandered like a thing alive. One of the freed sparkles hurtled past the fagship very
close. It revealed itself a coherent orb, tumbling and faming its own tendrils. A piercing sine
wave screeched from the walls as it passed and plunged beyond, outward into space.
Increase temporal defection to maximum, Goren tranzed. Beneath him the ship
throbbed and hummed with deep, resonant power.
Procyx grew so close that its limb seemed an intense, radiant, blue horizon spreading
before the fagship. All evidence of its spherical shape were gone. The far away stars of the
galaxy shone behind it, compressed and above the limb. It was as though space above, behind
and around Procyx had collapsed, incredibly fattenedas if the universe itself had been
compressed down to two dimensions and could be seen all at once, displayed as on an infnite fat
map that had been turned horizontally beyond Procyx.
Gorens ships began leaping into the blinding surface of the End Star, vanishing in swollen
fashed of white brilliance.
We have lost contact with the feet inside, the fagship commander announced. Should
we retreat?
Goren turned on him. Of course not. They have entered a different universe. How could
we expect to communicate with them? Proceed and enter Procyx.
The limb of the End Star pitched suddenly upward and now only staggering blue glory
flled the view-screen, stirred to incredible patterns by whatever energies powered it.
Entrance in ten seconds, the commander announced.
Goren found himself breathing deeply, holding his head high.
The last instant before the fagship penetrated the surface, Goren heard . . . voices? Wind?
Water? He could not be sure, for it came and went so quickly that it sounded like a hissing
shimmer.
Utter blackness ensued, accompanied by a rushing sound like an ocean of water pouring
down across mountains of solid rock. Swirling shapes stirred within the darknessclouds of
heaviness deeper than the darkness. It seemed blacker, here than any intergalactic space Goren
had ever seen. And yet, as he gazed at it with deliberateness, the darkness didnt seem so stark.
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Goren could see movement within it. He eased his throne forward, squinting to try to see better.
The darkness did move as in the slow churning of pitch thunderheads. But here there was no
lightning, only degrees of darkness beyond black.
At last, the fagship burst free of this dark storm and Goren beheld patches of strange,
whirling light that changed wherever he looked. Through and among all these he caught sight of
the occasional glowing energy ports of his own vessels. When he looked directly at his ships, he
could see their depolarizer blisters glowing violet. Good. Then all the ships systems would work
here. There was a ten percent chance they wouldnta possibility he never disclosed to anyone.
Look there, someone whispered. Goren turned and found a terrible, fascinating wonder.
The swirling lights he had seen wherever he looked had resolved themselves into what seemed
to be long tunnels of fashing, vortexing clouds. At the end of each tunnel there rested stars
or worldsother universes as numerous as there are sands of the sea. Even the slightest
displacement of the eyes revealed a different tunnel ending in a different cosmos. Goren moved
his eyes all about.
This was incredible!
One universe had red skies flled with black stars; another had a white brilliance so
dazzling that he quickly turned away; one was deep blue with bolts of lavender lightning, frozen
in spacehanging like myriad stars; another shone stars of dazzling, coherent colorsbrilliant.
Here, Goren managed to affx his gaze. Points of brilliance drifted slowly down the tunnel toward
him and past his feet like falling bubbles. The walls of the fagship rang and sang as each passed
by, like the sparking orbs Procyx had hurtled past him as the fagship had approached.
Steady, Goren said after recovering himself. The effect was mesmerizing. Close all
viewers for a time. Search for the billion feets using scanners only.
The view-screen darkened, returning sanity to the vessel. But though there was a sense of
safe enclosure, the humming rings of passing orbs continued. Goren sighed, waiting. He thought
back upon Dualors plate again. The recollection of it continued to haunt him. He turned his
throne around, glided over toward it and tranzed a guard to hand it to him again.
The plate seemed to glow at places with an inner illumination. The golden sun within the
cone shone so brightly that Goren found himself squinting. The white inner robe being revealed
by the shorter fgure on the left side facing the edge with its accompanying fame symbols also
shone with its own inner brilliance along with the twelve sun symbols at the top, in a variety
of colors. Puzzling, he suspected that the bright blue star centered among the row of suns and
surrounded by its own shining fame symbols was Procyx. Goren began to understand Dualors
treasuring interest in the plate. It revealed things. But what did it all mean?
Contact ahead, the commander tranzed him. Artifcial structures . . . computer
tabulation counts ten thousand of them . . . linked together by some sort of energy strands . . .
cant identify energy type . . . size of each structure planetary in proportion . . . ffty thousand
kilometers in diameter . . .
Open view-screen, Goren tranzed. Again the barrage of Procyxs interior invaded his
gaze. He tried moving his head all about, trying to see, but the intrusion of a new tunnel to a
different universe with every slight motion drove him to distraction. Where the Gates are they?
he muttered. Give me a scanner read fx. A moment later ten thousand small fashing diamonds
appeared across the surface of the view-screen.
. . . Shape of all structures appears to be generally spherical, but open to space . .
.apparently . . .
Yes! Yes. Those would be the harbors.
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Smaller structures seem to be imbedded within . . . strange structural webbing and
outcroppings . . .
Is there a ring-shaped vessel among them?
Cant distinguish one as yet. Our ships are fanning out. Theres a lot of debris . . . The . . .
er, harbor worlds are themselves arranged in a spherical formation . . . pluridium! Imps, theres
tons of the stuffall over the place!
Forget the pluridium. Look for a ring-shaped vessel. Theres got to be one somewhere in
that formation!
Wait . . . wait . . . yes! Affrmative, Great One. A larger diamond shape began fashing.
Contact has been made.
Excellent! That would be the Ark of Hurdthe command ship. Tell all vessels to lock
a course by instrument, ignore visual and approach the ring-shaped vessel. Ready maximum
frepower. Shields at one-ten percent. Take us in.
Affrm, Great One. The rest of the feet has entered Procyx as well and stands behind us.
Attention! This is Goren. Deploy as instructedten battle transports for each harbor
world. Release and position shaped neural disrupters for maximum frepower around each
harbor worldno, wait. Lets double that just to be sure. I want to be able to knock out all life
aboard those worlds at my discretion while still keeping the vessels and hardware intact for our
use. Link detonations via hyperspacial relay to my throne. When that is done, assume standard
attack formation code amber outside the neural disrupter shells, then hold your positions.
Readiness is to be maintained at top alert.
A hundred thousand vessels spread out, shooting past Gorens fagship to surround
the huge, spherical fotilla. Within minutes, each planet-sized vessel of the billion feets
was surrounded by hundreds of neural disruption devices backed by ten fully-armed battle
transports.
Great One, the commander of the Invincibles tranzed him. The Invincibles cannot
approach the command ship.
Why not?
There is a unique defense system protecting it. They request Your Greatness approach as
well and advise them.
Goren smiled. Perhaps an incantation under the Black Arts is required here. Take us in.
The fagship moved forward, past one of the great harbor ships of the billion feets. Goren
watched it with fascination and a strange feeling that seemed more like hunger than anything
else. The world-sized vessel looked as if it were nothing but a conglomeration of what must
have been ten million smaller ships, each moored in its own full-serve dock. Navigation beacons
fashed, and red strobe trails coursed across the harbor world in ever varying complexities.
Give me visual amplifcation, Goren tranzed quickly. He magnifed the view-screens
display of the harbor world. The terrifying noses of massive attack ships pointed outward from
the surface in row upon row. They looked like the beaks of some hideous, armored bird of prey
designed to rip and tear fesh, mutated and contorted into the most horrible of both reptilian and
insectile ferocity. Their appearance gave Goren a sudden thrill of fear and for just a moment he
shuddered under a panic that nearly drove him to call off this enterprise. Instead, after taking a
deep breath, he turned his attention past them to try to see the Ark of Hurd.
Once beyond the shell of harbor worlds, the disconcerting, tunneling ambiences of Procyxs
interior fell inexplicably away. Inside this formation of worlds there was now only vivid darkness.
Or was it only darkness? Goren sat forward, straining to see more, for the deep night seemed
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alive, not the way the interior of Procyx hadalive with storm-like turbulences, but alive in an
organic sense. He saw feeting images just out of the corners of his eyeswas it the futtering
of black wings, as if hundreds of bats or perhaps thousands of parasitic insects swarmed just
beyond his feld of vision? He turned his head quickly to try to see them, but whenever he did
they disappeared. Each subsequent time he tried to catch them again, they were gone in an
instant. Eventually he discovered that he could only see them peripherally when his attention
was focused elsewhere.
Command ship is directly ahead, Great One, the commander tranzed. Goren tried
to ignore the annoying, peripheral distractions in an attempt to fnd the powerful, legendary
vessel. Finally, amidst the glow of his Invincibles, Goren saw the massive, ring-shaped starship.
It pulsated with what must have numbered thousands of mysterious, brown brilliances that
were diffcult to focus on. They shone through a fuzzy haze surrounding the Ark of Hurd like
undulating waves of dark wheat. Their motion drifted in slow ripples that made them look as if
they were under water.
What are those things?
The fagship slowed to a cautious reconnaissance speed. The swaying fuzziness began
to resolve itself into translucent tentacles that wandered sedately, albeit hungrily, as if the
command ship were some form of nightmarish anemone. Goren watched the fow of tentacles in
fascination, glimpsing, sometimes, the wreckage of strange starships caught within them. All the
trapped vessels looked aliendistinctly alien in their design. Some of the ships still glowed with
power while what looked like tethered spiders clung to their sides, apparently draining them of
their energy. Goren swallowed nervously. No wonder none of his Invincibles dared approach. The
Ark of Hurd protected itself from attack by catching and feeding off the energies of any vessels
that drew too near. But now a new question arose in Gorens mind. Where had these alien vessels
come from?
Should we fre on them? the commander tranzed.
Negative, Goren replied. It looks like those things feed on energy. Besides, we do not
know what they are capable of. I told you that an incantation might be called for . . .
Great One . . . another offcers tranz interrupted. I think you should see this. Request
permission to roll ship 180 degrees.
Granted, Goren replied. He found himself swinging his great arms as if to ward off the
dark swarms that persistently tormented his periphery. He perspired profusely now, despite the
circulating coolant his throne provided, but then the cursed coolant hardly ever worked anyway!
The fagship rolled over and now, directly above Goren, there hovered what looked like an
immense eye. Its cornea flled the entire open space within the ring of the Ark of Hurd and the
pupil was utterly, dimensionally black. Bolts of lightning danced occasionally across the expanse
of the dark, velvety, bloody red cornea.
The Eye of the Procyx! someone whispered.
Scanners show it to be a continuum warp of some kind, Great One. It is dormant, at the
momentbarely functional, but energy levels are rock solid constantmaintained presumably to
keep it open.
Open to where? And why didnt we see it when we approached? Goren asked. No one
ventured an answer. Hmmm. Well, turn us back, and keep a vigilant watch on that warp.
Yes, Great One.
Goren now tried to remember the tentacle defense systems of the Ark of Hurd from the
RNA implant Dualor had made for him. This command ship was said to be a predator of the
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highest possible order. Its energy requirements were voracious, even when asleep. Access to the
Ark was available only through the Black Arts. Goren thought through the various incantations
again and againnothing specifc jumped out on him. He decided to back off from the obvious
and concentrate on the metaphorical. He remembered all the incantations again, recalling them
carefully and fnally hesitating on an unusual onethe Chant of the Blossom. There were no
cross-references in his memory, but Goren felt that this one might well be the one that would
work, remembering how the Ark had looked like an anemone from a distance. He paused,
remembered the ritual for a moment, then standing, he opened his arms wide.
Miall kon Vor Scalliat, he began. Immediately, the tentacles ceased their rippling
wanders and hesitated, suspendedparalyzed. Goren felt a surge of encouragement. He brought
his hands together, palms pressing against each other. Verahnteeos Coln Echion! Kilstra tohn
Echion Polterra! Nashkt!
The captive alien ships began drifting out of their traps, tumbling off into space. Goren
watched with swelling pride as the tentacles began withdrawing inside the ring. A cheer rose
up from the crew of the fagship. Moments later, all traces of the tentacles were gone, and the
smooth surface of the Ark of Hurd lay exposed to Goren and his Invincibles.
Red strobes began fashing at intervals all about the ring. Docking bays began to open,
protruding in readiness. Goren clenched his fst in triumph.
Now I want TRIPLE level neural disrupters set around this vessel. Once they are in
place and linked to my throne the troop ships can move incarefullymove in and dock, he
commanded. I want full body armor, including neural screens on all troops as well as hover
packs. No one is to touch any surface insidenot foors, walls or ceilings. Nothing! Take as long
as needed to occupybut I say again, DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING! Understand? Alert me
when all is in readiness. Goren out.
The Invincible ships began docking. Goren forced his eagerness into tenuous abeyance
by tranzing for a cup of tri-kafe and trying to sip quietly on it while his troops carefully took
possession of the Ark of Hurd. The drink did nothing to calm him. He snubbed a button to push
his thrones air conditioner into overdrive and felt a slight cooling throughout his suit but found
he still had, now and then, to wipe perspiration from his brow. When the call fnally came in that
the Ark had been secured by the Invincibles as per his instructions, Goren all but spilled his
drink trembling to put the cup aside.
Excellent, commander. Stand in readiness.
Great One, the tranz of the Invincible commander held a tone of uneasiness that Goren
picked up immediately. I strongly suggest that you bring your entire personal Guard with you.
Goren frowned. That may be perceived as a sign of weakness when I wake the ship.
As you wish, Great One. But I would still recommend it.
Goren shifted about uneasily. I appreciate your concern for me, commander, but I feel I
must make the right impression when I wake the ships Guardian.
Its just that . . . well, you have not yet seen the inside of this vessel.
So what of it? Am I a child to cower at sleeping shadows? I will not bring my Guard in
with me.
The answering silence satisfed Goren that the commander had fnally relented. It took
every ounce of courage Goren had to transfer himself now, alone, into the docking bay of his
fagship and move silently between rows of his crack personal Guard, all standing alert at his
silent passage. The look of admiration their faces wore did help lift his spirits for a time. He
knew that each one of them had heard the exchange he had had with the Invincible commander
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and Goren had always counted on the admiration of his Guard to insure their loyalty. The
captain of his guard stepped forward one last time as Goren slid toward the doors of the docking
bay.
We will come with you, Great one, if that is your desire. You are too valuable to us to
allow you to enter unnecessary danger.
Goren turned his throne about, facing his them. My good men! Stand down. I declare a
full recess for you all. You are dismissed. Enjoy a well-deserved rest.
The men broke into casual relief, taking off their helmets and securing their weapons.
The captain stepped forward, inclining his head to whisper to him. I think youre making a
mistakenot taking us in with you.
Goren smiled. Im not afraid of a sleeping shipeven Echions command ship.
Thats not what worries me.
What, then?
Im talking about the danger of an assassination attempt.
From someone among the Invincibles? Why should they . . . have you heard any
scuttlebutt?
You command millions of men. True, the Invincibles are the best of those men, but
the best are often the most ambitious as well. Plus, there will always be grousers as well as
opportunists, more than ready and looking for a chance to take matters into their own hands.
These are the ones I worry about most. Is that not so?
Yes, Goren hesitated. But here at the Ark I believe such treachery can be turned to my
purposes. Do you know of any such opportunists among the Invincibles?
Intelligence has suggested a few likely candidates.
Goren nodded. Arrest them. Hold them here for me until I call for one, then bring one
inside, bound. I believe he will be able to serve me far better that way than as an Invincible of
questionable loyalty. What will happen to such will serve an excellent example of my displeasure
with any others of similar bend. Besides, if what legend says about the Ark of Hurd is true, I
suspect even the most intent of them will be too busy keeping their heads about them than to try
and remove me.
I shall do as you command. Good luck, then, Great One. the captain stepped back and
Goren turned to face the open doors of the dockdoors that opened into a fshy, musty smelling
darkness.
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Chapter Two
The Mountain
I
There was a sense of timelessness, and no matter where Reeber looked out through the
twenty-meter domed control bubble of the Nebo, all he could see was fre. But it was not fre
exactlyenergy, yessomething between fre and lightning, and all of it a vivid, intensely rich
golden color.
The ship resonated from these energies without. Reeber had fnally accustomed himself
to the foor, the wallseverywhere within this room glowing as if they were golden hot, and yet
nothing radiated heat or showed signs of softening. He turned back to look again with wonder
upon the pedestal that stood alone in the center of the control bubble.
Twin command stations on raised daises had occupied the center of the bubble when
he and the others had frst entered. But the moment the Coss sphere had been brought in,
the command stations had disassembled into the foor. Moments later a cylindrical, pluridium
pedestal had pushed up from the dais, a perfectly smooth, concave hemispheric depression
draining from its top. Morse had not hesitated in placing the Coss sphere into this central
depression. Later, he had told Reeber he had seen all of this in a dream. When the sphere had
come to rest in that depression it had ft it perfectly. A moment later, the dome had fashed to
transparency and the walls beneath the cove had begun to glow in the way they shone now. The
Nebo had lifted from the Old World of its own accord, then into space and beyond, unfalteringly
into the accretion array that comprised the Eye of Polyphemus.
They had all puzzled at the approach of the Cygnus and the sudden intervention of
fve other Vanguards that had cut off their view of the frst. Finally a tremendous, brilliant
maelstrom of golden lightning and dazzling fre had begun swirling about them, obscuring the
universe, and persisted until that very moment.
How much time had actually passed since thenreal time that passed steadily beyond the
energies that surrounded the Nebo? Reeber could not venture a guess. Perhaps no time at all.
Perhaps minutes, hours or days. Morse had told him they now occupied some sort of ultimate,
inter-dimensional realm he, himself, had only glimpsed on rare occasions. Whatever else there
was about the here where they found themselves now, time could be whatever one wanted it to
beor needed it to be.
Reeber reviewed the events that had transpired since they had been engulfed in the
dazzling, golden storm. He had been able to talk to Morse extensively about the Commodores
dreamthe one that had resulted in their rescue. In the passage of that time, Reeber had eaten
twice, slept a full nights rest, and now stood gazing out into that deep sea or sky of radiant gold
that milled about the Nebo in its own unknowable paths and purposes. But again, as Reeber
tried to estimate the actual time spent, even these events had seemed to take mere moments
the twinkling of an eye.
In all that time he had seen neither Melana nor the two Mhyrnian children anywhere.
He was ashamed to admit that this was something of a relief to him. Since coming on board
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he had avoided contact with the children of Metrasor, not because he was particularly
uncomfortable around children, but because he wasnt sure what to say or even if he should
say anything to them about what he suspected concerning the fate of their father. Melana had
taken them elsewhere. Reeber he had not seen Celeste, either. Morse had told him that she was
off somewhere, studying intenting, the ancient writings etched in nearly every wall of the
starship.
Were headed somewhere, Im sure of that. Morse spoke from behind him. Reeber turned
to see the Commodore standing over the Coss sphere, gazing down on it. His face was underlit
with the intense blue illumination that shone up from the star-shaped jewel encrusted in the
upper pole of the Coss sphere. And have you noticed that the spiraling inscriptions are gone?
Reeber joined him. It was true. The upper hemisphere no longer had any hieroglyphs.
They always told you where Procyx was in relation to the sphere, Reeber said quietly.
We discovered that before we left. The larger star-shaped glyph was a one and the smaller, a
zero. The top hemisphere told you the distance to Procyx in wavelengths of Procyxian light. The
bottom hemisphere told you the same distance in wavelengths of soundthe exact sound Procyx
made when it frst appeared.
Interesting. I wonder why the hieroglyphs are gone? Morse knelt down, examining the
central band with its ring of thirteen triangular jewels. Wait a minute. Not everythings gone.
Take a look.
Reeber grunted as he knelt. Squinting, he saw in the gap between the red and violet
triangular stones an engraving he had never noticed there beforea pictograph.
What do you suppose it means?
Celeste Jenson walked into the control bubble. As on the Vanguards, the wall opened like a
pool of metal and closed behind her.
Well, where have you been? Reeber straightened.
Studying.
Have you discovered anything?
Intentions, only. Im an intentor. While I cant read the words I can comprehend a
measure of what the hieroglyphs say, indirectly. Behind all written language is intentright? So,
while I cant directly translate the hieroglyphs I can know much of their meaning, occasionally
even better than by direct translation.
Fine! Fine! Reeber struggled against impatience. Tell us what you have found!
But Celeste hesitated. Its diffcult to understand and explain in words. The intelligences
that etched these walls understood so much more about everything than I do that my
comprehension of them is limited to the emotional level. Sometimes, though, I see things
pictures, scenesthat sort of thing.
Can you give us an example? Anything?
She took a deep breath. Hmm. All right. Ill give it a try.
For nearly a full minute, Celeste stood with her eyes closed. When she opened them, she
looked at Reeber.
Some of what I have seen concerns you, Clement.
Me? How is that possible?
She shrugged. You are not mentioned by name, of coursethis ship is so very ancient.
But I know its you, from both the feeling I get from your personality and from the offce you now
hold.
What do you mean by offce?
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Offcelike some governing position. She scratched at her scalp. And yes, it is you . . .
and Melana, too. A lot of its about her too, but not yet.
Not yet.
No. Not until later.
Reeber shook his head, bewildered. Im sorry . . .
Im not doing very well at this. You dont understand, do you? I was afraid you wouldnt.
Its not just you, though. I dont think anyone . . . She sighed. All right, all right. Let me try to
break it down to specifcs.
You are as a father with no children. You will have your children, and you and they will
be a means of restoring and spreading great and marvelous lost secrets and truths throughout
every galaxy of the universetruths that are the basis of all that is good and wonderful and
right. Thats the intent of all this. She lifted her hand as if pointing out the entirety of the Nebo.
And it shall prepare all things for the coming of some great event . . .
The End Star of Joy, Reeber added, half questioning, half knowing it to be so.
I dont know what that is, but it seems right. Here, write it down and show it to me.
Reeber searched for something to write on. When he couldnt, he knelt down and wrote it
with his fnger on the foor. Celeste watched. Finishing, he looked back at her. She nodded.
Yes. Thats it. You will do something importantyou and Melana together, that is. But
that time is removedyet to come. As for now, you are the Eye that reveals the self.
Reeber looked down toward the robe he wore beneath the cloak Metrasor had given him.
Thats the offcepart of it, at least. You understand that much. The writings reveal that
you have duties that relate to that robe. When the time is right, you will go to a room somewhere
in this ship that will allow you to give away the Eye that reveals the self to a manan Infdel
who will, in turn, use it to slay false onesterrible mendemons.
Infdel? Reeber paused. Infdel! Where had he heard that term recently? Theres
something I should know about an Infdel . . . I cant seem to put my fnger on it. It was an
annoying stretch to try to remember something that was just beyond recollection. Infdel was
there in his mind. It was important to understanding things. But for the life of him, Reeber
couldnt place it.
Infdel . . . Infdel . . .
I dont know what it all means, but, apparently, youll know what to do at the proper
time.
Infdel . . . Hmm? What?
Apparently, you will know what it means and what you must do when the time comes.
Hmm. I . . .
You do believe that you will know what to do at the proper time, even though you dont
understand it?
Reeber shrugged, looking around him. Ive given up unbelief almost completely. His eyes
fell on the Coss sphere again, its blue jewel shining like Procyx itself. Now, tell mewhat have
the writings told about the Coss plate?
Celeste shook her head. Nothing specifc. But I know that the answers to all things are
recorded here on this ship. I just havent found them yet.
Have you shared any of this with Melana?
No. It isnt time for her to worry about that yet. She has her hands full with those two
boys.
A sudden guilt overtook Reeber. He really should try to fnd themgive Melana support or
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advice or a breaksomething.
Do you know where she took them? he asked Celeste, but Morse answered.
Dont you know where they are?
I havent known where to look. How do you fnd your way around?
Im surprised you havent learned that yet. Just think where you want to go and walk
toward the wall.
Reeber laughed once. Really? Well, I havent . . . I mean I . . . so thats how it works. I
didnt think I could fnd them, he said, a little more guiltily. He was ashamed to admit to himself
that he must really have wanted to avoid the tricky situation of conversing with two Mhyrnian
boys who might well be orphans by now. The Nebo, apparently able to read his thoughts or at
least his intentions had, obediently, not shown him where to go.
He cleared his throat. You know, I wondered about that. I mean . . . well, I guess I thought
it was luck before, just sort of heading for the wall and winding up where I wanted to be. I guess
I thought I was just exploring and lucky to fnd where it was I wanted to go so quickly. He
looked at Morse. How did you know about it?
The dream.
Right. The dream, Reeber nodded, still trying to keep his intellectual balance in an
environment where all the rules seemed upside-down and backward while never chaotic. Guess
Ill give it a try. He turned, chose a spot on the far wall and deliberately, forcefully thought about
wantingneedingto fnd Melana. The wall opened before him into a pleasant room where the
walls did not glow.
Melana sat on a couch, holding the younger of Metrasors sons on her lap. He sucked
his thumb, huddled up against her breast. The older boy sat across the arms of a nearby chair,
arms folded, looking away from both Reeber and Melana. She looked up as he came in, her face
suddenly, immensely relieved to see him.
Hello, he said uneasily. After a moment he pulled up another chair and sat tentatively
among them. Oreb, the child on Melanas lap, looked at him then turned his face away, almost
trying to bury himself in her. Reeber waited for a few minutes, then looked over at Kishkor in the
chair. The older boy would not acknowledge himpointedly so. Reeber looked at Melana, who
stared at him, bewildered.
I . . . Reeber began, just rambling but now feeling, somehow, that he should talk to these
boys. I think we should talk about your father.
Silence.
He is dead, like mommy. Oreb said then went back to sucking his thumb.
Reeber wanted to say something soothing, like we dont really know that Metrasor is dead.
But the old man had more than intimated that he was going to his death, and somehow Reeber
knew that the Mhyrnian was gone. It didnt even occur to him to wonder how he knew that kind
of thing any more. He just knew it. He nodded his head slowly.
We dont know that for sure, Reeber said. Then after a pause, his conscience stirred him
to add, But I think that it may well be true. He suggested as much. I . . . I am very, very sorry.
More silence. Then Kishkor said, We are not to be upset by that. It was fathers command
that we leave him. I have obeyed him.
We both obeyed him! Oreb chimed in defensively. Not just you!
Kishkor ignored him. We can care for ourselves. You may leave us alone, if you wish. He
half turned his head toward Melana. Both of you.
Melanas face winced at that. Reeber fought an urge to scold this brat for such blatant
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unkindness to a woman in whom he knew no unkindness could ever take root. One look at
Melanas face told him that she saw his struggle to protect her. She shook her meaning that he
should say nothing. Reeber stood up, trying to give himself time to cool off.
We do not need you, Kishkor went on. Dont you understand? Father taught us to care
for ourselves. You are infdels who know nothing of sacred things! Why dont you just leave us
alone? We care for each other! Go!!
Stop it! Oreb suddenly cried. Just stop it!
And whos going to stop me? A crying babe who still sucks his thumb?
Oreb scrambled to climb off Melanas lap, his eyes raging, fsts clenched. Kishkor moved as
if to jump on his brother, but Reeber held him back while Melana restrained Oreb. The older boy
turned on Reeber, ragingswinging wildly at him.
Youre father entrusted you to us, Reeber said, fending off the blows.
Ill destroy you with the Golden Death! Infdel! You are the ones who brought my fathers
death. I swear I will destroy you!
Reeber took hold of Kishkors shoulders, holding him frmly.
Curse you all to Echions depths! Kishkor screamed at him. Curse you for taking away
father! Curse you! I curse you! I curse you! and suddenly the boy staggered into tears.
Reeber stood staring at the sobbing child, not knowing what he should do. He had never
felt so helpless. At lastuneasily yet boldly, he tried pulling the boy to him. At frst, Kishkor
struggled. Reeber waitedstill holding on invitingly, but waiting. At last the boy relented,
letting his tears go fully, and fnally. Reeber pulled him close, comfortingly. Suddenly Reeber
found himself aching inside. All the memories of his own parents death fooded through him
unexpectedly, and tears welled up, unbidden. He sniffed quietly as he held the boys head
tenderly.
Its all right that it hurts when theyre gone. Reeber said, his own voice thick with
emotion. He hugged the boy tightly, now. Do you hear? Its all right that it hurts!
Reeber could barely see Melana and Orebs faces for the blurring of his own eyes.
Its all right that it hurts, Reeber said over and over again, stroking the boys head. He
looked over at Melana, his eyes having cleared some. Her eyes were also moist and Orebs face
was buried in her breast. She held the child as tightly as he held her.
Time passed in this quiet. Kishkor was the frst to settle down. He pulled away from
Reeber at last, a bit embarrassed. Immediately he went to Oreb, pulling at his brothers hand.
Together, a moment later, they left the room in silence, not looking back. Reeber found himself
alone with Melana.
Oh, Clement, she came to him, sliding easily into his arms. I dont know if I can do this!
Will this ever end? Will we ever be free to be togetherjust usthe two of us? She sighed. I
know theyre sweet boys . . .
I dont know about the older one . . .
Hes just trying to copethats all. She sighed again, tiredthe kind of tired that comes
from too much emotional strain for too long a time. She looked down, bewildered. I . . . I just
cant be a mothernot yet. Im not even a wife! But the MhyrnianI know Im supposed to take
care of themwere supposed to take care of them. These boys need someone. Whatll we do?
Reeber thought for a moment. Were supposed to take them to Mhyrnright? Isnt that
what their father said? They have family on Mhyrn.
Well, I guess youre right. Maybe. Melana thought for a moment then shook her head.
She looked up at him again, then sighed. No, Clement. I cant help it. I . . . I just dont think so. I
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had a dream last night . . .
Reebers heart fell. A dream. Polyphemus spoke to Vanguard commanders through their
dreams.
It was just a while after we had lifted from the Old World and fallen into thisthis
burning placewherever we are. It was when the boys had fnally fallen off to asleep. I dont
know where you were. It was so quiet. I dozed off. The dream . . . Melana paused, shaking her
head. Over and over again she shook her head, struggling with what she was going to say next.
Finally, she looked up at him again. Clement, I dont know how to say this. I dont even know
if its right. And then, resolutely Yes I do. Clement, these boys are supposed to become our
children.
What? Reeber balked. Now wait a minute! I cant see how we . . . I havent had any
dreams like that. You expect me to . . . look I havent had training on bringing up children! I
hate children! I mean, well, I dont really hate themI just have no patienceno tolerance . . .
Besides, they have family on Mhyrn . . . and then he remembered what Celeste had said about
him being a father without children who would have them. It seemed suddenly, terribly right.
These boys were to be his children! Still he fought the notion. We cant keep them, Melana! They
belong to their familyamong their own kind . . . He sighed, shaking his head again. No, I
cant . . . I just cant . . .
Not just you. Together we can! Were supposed toI know we are! Its what we must do!
You do feel it, dont you? I can sense you do!
He did feel itknew she was right. But he was also staggering beneath this incredible
weight of unanticipated tiesthe shackles of a lifetime of responsibility thrust upon him before
he was ready for itbefore he had even considered it. Parenting was a one-way door with no
exits. He looked for reasons not to take them on.
But why us? Dont you think it makes mores sense for them to grow up on Mhyrn? We . .
. What are we supposed to do with them? Theyre Mhyrnian. They need to know their heritage
grow up beneath it. Isnt that whats best for them? We know next to nothing about Mhyrnian
customs. Are we supposed to . . .
Thats the scary part, Clement yesall the things youre talking about. But theres more
going on here than just raising two boysIm sure about that!
Clement, I dont know how were supposed to raise them any more than you do. But,
somehow, were supposed to do it. It sounds crazy, and all these things you mention are real
concerns. But we can do it. Were both reasonably intelligent, arent we? Togetherboth of us
working together, we can do it. Cant we?
Reeber looked away, a deep sigh escaping him. He clamped his eyes shut, shaking his
head.
Look, I know what Im going to say might sound like nonsense, Clement, but I feel that,
well, this is supposed to be. If its supposed to be, well get extra help from . . . she spread her
hands, somewheresomeonewhoever it is that says to us raise these boys for a special
purpose. I dont know how it works. Some day we will know how it works, I think. But it will
work out. We will know what to do when the time comes. Cant you feel it! Melana took his
hands, looking up into his eyes. I cant believe you cant feel it. She sighed. Am I sounding like
an hysterical fool? She gazed into his eyes and he knew he was lost. You do feel it, dont you!
Its right, isnt it!
It did feel right, but Reeber could not shake the fear that gripped him. He shook his head
Look! Melana went on eagerly. Cant you see that things could work out? When you
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came in and talked to the boys . . . Why, Clementthat was the frst time Kishkor had said
anything since we lifted! No matter what I tried I couldnt get him talk to me, or even Oreband
Oreb . . . well, he just sat there. He wouldnt cryhe wouldnt tantrumnothing! He just sat.
But you, Clement you did ityou. I was about at my wits end. How did you know to come in
when you did?
Reeber didnt know, of course. He had just felt the need to seek her out. At the time guilt
and a sense of duty seemed to be driving him, but now it seemed as if there was something more.
Clement, I couldnt do anything more for them. It took you to do it!
He felt a sudden, joyful surge of incandescent rightness within himlike the richness he
had felt on the Vanguard and at times on Polyphemus.
A day at a time? He hugged her tightly. Her embrace was equally strong, and he felt her
nodding yes. She sniffed once. When they pulled apart enough to look at each other again he saw
that her eyes were moist.
So we wont know what to do until the very moment were supposed to do it, is that it?
Sometimes, she laughed, clearing the moisture off her cheeks and sniffng. That was the
sense I got from my dream.
Well, Reeber sighed, resolved. I might as well tell you the whole of it. He then
proceeded to repeat what Celeste had told her about them.
Thats it, Clement! Isnt it?
Thats it, he sighed, shaking his head in wonder.
Were going to have two sons, she grinned with a brightness in her face Reeber had never
seen there before. It made her incredibly beautifulmore beautiful than he had ever seen her
before. Oh, Clementdo you suppose the boys will want us as parents? And what about the
legalities?
Well leave it to them, of course. If they dont want uswell, I dont know. If its supposed
to be . . .
If its supposed to be, Melana picked up. . . . For some important purpose we keep
sensingif its supposed to be, dont you think they will feel it too, Clement?
Reeber nodded.
And what about the legalities?
1 dont know about that one. Lets prepare to handle it and not try to get too anxious
about it beforehand. Like you said, if its supposed to beit will happensomehow, it will
happen. I mean just look at all weve been through together. How is it that the Coss artifacts just
happened to come to Coss who then gave them to me? And how is it we were able to keep them,
even when Collins, with all his power, did everything he could to get them away from us? And
now, here we are, nearing the time when Procyx is to be destroyed because we are taking the
artifacts to wherever they need to be to work their power on it. And most of allhow is it that
you and I ever found each other among all the trillions upon trillions of humans in the galaxy
how did we ever get together?
Melana embraced him. They clung together for a long timeholding each other tightly
clinging onto each other as if once they parted they might never have each other again. Reeber
pulled back just a bit, lifted her chin gently with his hand and kissed her.
* * *
Reeber stood in a quiet hallway of the Nebo, holding the Coss platestudying it. The
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notched arrowhead depression intrigued him. What was it for? There were no hieroglyphs inside
the depression and he had discovered, quite by accident, that it was magnetized. Wait until he
told his colleagues about that! Magnetic pluridium was unheard of. It seemed very likely that
something else was supposed to ft within the depressionsomething metallicperhaps even
something else made of oppositely charged magnetic pluridium?
Reeber tried to understand where all of this business might be leading. It was like a
puzzle. He reviewed what the puzzle pieces were as he saw them.
First, there was the unresolved mystery of what had happened when he had frst
demonstrated the Coss stonethat had hid the plate inside itto Morse on board the courier
ship. He recalled with excitement how the Vanguard Cygnus had burst into vivid, golden life
when the stone had foated of itself in the aira behavior that obviously startled everyone
present.
Second, when Morse had tried to fnd out why the Cygnus had acted that way, he had been
told by the Vanguard that it had understood the messagemessage?but that it wasnt directed
toward it. He would have to ask Morse more about that.
Third, when the Coss artifacts had fnally been exposed to the pure tone of Procyxs
appearance, the rock had melted away revealing this plate.
Fourth, the Sphere had created images that Reeber knew to be symbols of the twelve
Vanguards.
Fifth, he had seen a thirteenth Vanguardone of the three Lost Masters. It had to be!
Sixth, from all of this Reeber was sure that the Vanguards fgured, somehow, in the
destruction of Procyx. What that involvement was, he could not imaginenot yet.
And seventh, these Mhyrnian artifacts were vital to that destruction process as well. That,
in itself, was a startling discovery. Mhyrn seemed clearly linked to the Vanguards as well as the
other Mestrate legends and sciences. The conclusion was inescapable to Reeber.
He looked at the hieroglyphs on the plate and at those on the wall. They looked similar,
probably written in the same language. Yes. Yes! He felt sure that the answers to all these
questions could be found somewhere on this vessel.
Melana came down the corridor toward him. Clement, she said and kissed him warmly.
Isnt all of this amazing? I mean look at it! I saw Celeste this morning. She told me some more
about what some of the inscriptions intend for us. Clementdo you realize that were the ones
who will decipher all of this? Then suddenly, her face grew excited. Oh, Clement! Do you
suppose youre the one who will do the translation?
Reeber echoed his own burst of excitement at that thought. Yes, Maybe so! He looked
carefully at the hieroglyphs, as if for the frst time, and as he did, he defated beneath an equally
strong weight of discouragement. Theyre so alien. Ive never seen anything like them, not
even among preserved originals millions of years old. He laughed without humor. Im not sure
any individual could decipher themcertainly not without sophisticated computer assistance.
Certainly not in any reasonable length of time, anyway.
Melana thought for a moment Hmm. Perhaps youre right. Maybe youre not the one
whos going to do the actual deciphering. She laughed. Im sure it wont be me.
Who, then? Celeste?
Maybe. But shes only an intentor. I dont think she could translate.
Morse?
Melana shook her head. He wants to get back to the Cygnus as soon as he cantold me
that just a while ago. And then, her face dawned on something. He voice was eager. Clement.
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Arent we forgetting someone?
Who? Polyphemus? Theres certainly enough computer support there. I would guess one
of the Vanguards could do it. But I dont see why the inscriptions would refer to us, when . . .
Us. Yes, Clement. Us. And who does us include, now?
Reeber thought for only a moment before it dawned on him who Melana meant. The
boys! Then it seemed preposterous. Youre not serious.
Yes. Well, no. I mean, well, probably not now, anyway. But maybe in years to comewhen
theyre older?
Reeber thought about that for a moment then shrank beneath a stab of heavy, dark
jealousy. Why shouldnt it be he that translated? He was best qualifed, wasnt he? He knew the
legends better than anyone on board. He looked down at Melana.
That bothers you, doesnt it.
What? he asked defensively. Er, no . . .
Clement. I know you. The prospect of translating these hieroglyphs must be incredibly
exciting to you. Isnt it? Well isnt it?
Reeber fushed. Curse her for being so close to him!
Its all right! I understand, she hugged him. You dont need to feel embarrassed about
it.
Im not embarrassed about it . . .
Id be jealous if I were you. This is what youve lived your life for, isnt it? To reveal the
truthno matter how it makes you feel or what it means to you?
No matter how it makes you feel or what it means to you. The words hit Reeber hard, as
if right in the solar plexus. Why should it hurt so much? He knew that Melana was right. He
should be able to handle this, shouldnt he? Reeber remembered again how it felt fnding out
that there really were Vanguards. The joy of discovering that his childhood fantasy was, in fact,
real had been so strong and sweet that it had been relatively easy for him to brush aside all his
years of wasted research intending to prove they didnt exist. But thisthis, to be denied this
discovery! Im fne, Reeber pushed past her, heading down the hall.
Its all right! Melana called after him. There will be plenty for us to share with them . .
.
Reeber had no particular place in mind to go, so he found himself simply wandering among
the corridors. After a time he paused, struggling with himself. How could he reconcile what he
wanted to do and what he suspected, now, to be his true role. Melana had put her fnger on it. He
would be denied the wonder of translation. The boys would do the translating. Of course!
Melana had not followed him, and just in case she had such plans, he moved away quickly,
moving farther down the halls with deliberate aimlessness. He needed to sort this out himself.
He walked for a time, just walked among the hallways of the ship, wrestling with himself
while simultaneously trying to deny and embrace what he knew to be the truth.
He had no peace.
Had the makers of the Vanguardsof this very vessel truly conversed with Deity in their
construction, as the legends had so frmly proclaimed? Is that what all this turmoil was about?
Is that what had brought him and Melana together, to be parents to the children who would
fnally restore all the ancient, lost truths to humanity spread across the galaxy? Was that all?
Were all these years spent in academic training and exercise preparing him only to be a parent?
Was the honored Doctor Clement Reeber now a mere parent to someone else who was, obviously,
greatermore favored, more talented? Was he a lesser father to someone who would get to do
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what Reeber desperately wanted while he stood silently aside and watched? Did he exist only
to help prepare those someones for such work and then spend his strength merely encouraging
them along once the work had begun?
Reeber scowled. Here he wasClement Reeber, expert of Dawn Era legends and
antiquities, recognized authority on Vanguard mythology, denied the opportunity of a lifetime
the opportunity of centuries of research and discovery! It was more than Reeber could bear. It
wasnt fair! It wasnt right!
Curse it all to Gates! he hissed and then, as if in defance, he stopped wandering and
stood, gazing at the inscriptions in the hall where he found himself. He would show up whoever
or whatever made such callused choices about peoples lives. He would show Him that he could
translate!
The fgures were odd looking. Many seemed truly alien. He looked for some symbolany
symbolism he might recognize to serve as a touchstone. He studied them intently, trying to
force himself to see their meaning. After a time, Reeber wondered if anyone, even supported
by the Gelding Mark VIII, could ever fully decipher these characters. Surely they must contain
some intellectually challenging philosophies; scientifc equations or advanced concepts. Even
translated, the things written here might baffe even the most academically gifted minds. After
all, these things had been written by the most technologically advanced civilization ever to exist
in this universe.
He wondered at the fgures. He decided that once he could distinguish such things as
equations from things like histories or philosophies or whatever, he should surely be able to build
excellent theories about what the builders of the Vanguards and this vessel knew and believed
about the universe. He could then look for evidence to support his conclusions. Anything that
didnt ft he could chalk up to a mystery that one really shouldnt be worried about right now.
After all, it would certainly be cleared up once all the evidence was in and his theory proved.
Lets look for numbers, frst, he said to himself. Since the numbers on the Coss sphere
had been identifed as binary expressions, he should be able to fnd any numbers here expressed
the same way. He scanned for numbers. Ah, theres a nice series. The sequence seemed to
preface a grouping of hieroglyphs. Then there was a space and another sequence of numbers.
He nodded, smiling. The numbers appeared to be articles or references. But to what? He
tried studying a single block of characters. No numbers there. The hieroglyphs seemed to be
true a cross between pictographs and symboids. They looked closest to very ancient Mhyrnian
fgures he had seen once. There were suggestions of pictures, but each picture-fgure was
layered in meanings. This language appeared to be very early, layering structures much akin
to the classical symboid discipline. But he could not follow it in the anything but the simplest
understandings. The deeper constructions were utterly mysterious.
Ah, here we are, Reeber smiled. Now, these looks like . . . humans; water; fre; animals;
plants and . . . yes, perhaps changerevolution? A lot of change. Sunlight . . . change . . . life?
Hmm, he mused. What might . . . perhaps a formula for changing life, somehow? Or perhaps a
whole world flled with life . . . or to be flled with life? Terra-forming? Yes! Yes, it could be! There
were obvious pairings of animalspredator and prey. There were plants of all kinds represented,
perhaps suggesting what appeared to be a cycle? It could be that these were methods for the
construction of a planets seasonsthe formula for the making of a balanced biosphere.
Reeber shook his head. Too many multiple symboid levels here. I dont know. He shook
his head again. Hmm. He would have to have a computer to sort them all out.
Suddenly but quietly, Celeste came around the corner of the hallway, apparently not
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seeing Reeber for the moment. She was caught up in absolute concentration, carefully searching
the intent of the inscriptions. Uneasy, Reeber felt a sudden urge to leave before she saw him. But
it was too late. Her eyes turned to him.
Dont go, Clement. You arent disturbing me.
I . . .
Whats wrong?
Nothings wrong, Reeber said defensively. I was just trying my hand at translating a bit,
thats all. What about you? What have you found?
Oh, Clement! This is amazing, this last sequence of writings Ive been following! Oh, I
know I cant see the words, but the intentions here are marvelous. Sometimes, I can almost see
things. Here, for instance. Let me tell you one. Now, look at this row of characters. I see . . . I see
a man dressed in white . . . no. No, it is red. Its both, actually.
Reeber watched Celestes face as her eyes moved across the fgures. Amazingly, it seemed
almost as if her face glowed with some sort of inner light. He shook the thought aside.
The man . . . shines with brilliance, brighter than the sun. He stands . . . in water. He is
coming up out of the waterwet. All around him trees bloom with dazzling blossoms. Animals
come toward him, predator and prey alike, walking together peacefully . . . no. More in harmony.
She paused, searching. White fowers foat about him on the water. And now, out of the waters .
. . yes, out of the waters around him I see men, women and children coming up from beneath the
surface. They . . . they come to him . . . theyre drawn to him as well. All are dressed in red. The
color . . . the color drains away as they touch him, leaving their robes white.
His eyes are like fre, Clement! His hair is whiter than anything I have ever seen! His
voice is like the rush of winds or the roar of cascading waters. She turned on Reeber suddenly.
Clement, that is what is contained in these words here. Can you feel the power of this vessel?
Part of that power is stored here, in these very inscriptions. I believe that no evil thing could ever
bear to come too close!
Reeber was devastated. Nevernever would he have supposed that such intent resided
within in these hieroglyphs. How could this be? Every one of his colleagues and even he,
himself, would quickly have dismissed even the suggestion of any such contenttoo mystical;
too superstitious; too simple minded for such a technologically advanced civilization as the one
that could build vessels like these! And yet all this had a familiar sound to it. Familiar, yesbut
familiar from where? It almost felt like going homethe truest home he could ever imagine.
Reeber felt an intense burning of rightness within him at the images Celeste had spoken. It was
like a brilliant light burning within hima burning of rightness mingled with a deep, steadying
peace. And there was joyjoy, at long last, joy again!
At last Reeber understood the wisdom of his role. It was not wisdom born of intellectual
reasoning or mere academic logic. It was wisdom that seemed far better, if that were possible.
It seemed wonderfully correct. Reeber accepted that there were times when such wisdom as this
was right. He could not explain it. Perhaps this intangible acceptance was like an instinct akin
to the Mestrate gifts. Perhaps it was inspiration from some higher source. Whatever it was it
provided Reeber with a knowledge that now was one of those times when traditional wisdom
would have to stare in disbelief. No mere scientifc method could uncover the things that were
stored in these fgures. A more elusive, intangible approach was needed; a method utilizing both
techniques and valued behaviors beyond anything imagined by present day science.
Reeber knew this, and now he could see how that it would be far better that children
approached this workchildren gifted in translation; children having fresh, uncluttered minds;
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children who could work with no preconceptions to overcome. In the end, they might be the
only ones who could uncover the wonders that were hidden here, for they would be fearless in
revealing what they found.
Reeber had been kindly, gently shown this. Celeste had given him a taste of what was
written here: pure, incredible; astounding truths that could well confound the wisest of men, or
serve to free the weakest of children from oppression. Here were wonders to lift the humble and
submissive to unimaginable heights.
What those truths would mean to humanity! Clement Reeber would fnd it very hard wait
for them.
I I
Thunder cracked and rebounded across the valley. The steady roar of the heavy rains
seemed all the more intense when it had subsided. Palmer jerked awake, his gutted helmet
rolling out of his lap onto the damp ground. He glanced around him intently then cursed himself
for dropping off to sleep.
RoseStar blistered the southern horizona milky bubble surrounded by smoke plumes
wafting from the distant wreckages of outlaw combine ships Gaultor had destroyed. Also to the
south and east of RoseStar the ugly scar of a crater marked the ferryships doom, and somewhere
in the jungles surrounding the dead city there waited the ruined ferryships fully-equipped and
still functional hoversleds. Had Palmers biotranz still been working he could have brought them
here at any time. Now, all he had to work with was his helmet, and he had spent more than a few
cursing hours trying to rig a transmitter strong enough to trigger the hoversleds into life again.
So far, nothing.
Palmer shivered, even though the temperature was moderate. He had no blasterno
energy weapons of any kind. He had fashioned a battle staff out of a long, hard stem he had
found among the exotic fauna of Mhyrn. This he grasped more securely as his eyes watchedhis
ears listened, trying to discern any approach. He could have no idea how long he had slept. If
the outlaws had managed to land a ship after Gaultors destruction of the feet, they might have
crept up on him and be, even now, waiting beyond the vegetation that clustered so heavily all
around him. The only way Palmer could be sure was to go into the Kyrellian battle stance. He
had avoided that since his fghter had crashed. The physical and emotional discipline of the
stance required considerable energy, and Palmer was hovering just above exhaustion, as it was.
Still, he had better make sure.
He took only a moment of total sensory introspection, then turned it powerfully outward.
In that moment he became aware of every leaf around himevery birdevery insectevery
animalwhere it stood or hovered or hid. Fortunately, mercifully, there was nothing human
nearby. He relaxed and slumped to the ground, fghting to keep his eyes openstruggling to stay
awake.
Gaultor shifted, a suppressed moan escaping him. Palmer was instantly awake. He turned
and went over to him.
The large Mhyrnian lay propped against two trees that had grown up so close to each
other their trunks nearly touched. Gaultors hands were wrapped in leaves. His face was pink,
the skin beginning to peel from frst-degree burns. Palmer touched his forehead. It was hot.
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Despite all of Palmers precautions, Gaultors hands must have become infected. Palmer knelt
beside him and carefully removed the leaf coverings on one hand. There were huge blisters all
over it, pink and oozingpuffy.
Great Palmer whispered. Gaultor stirred, looking up at him.
My hands are feverish, Gaultor said, coughing once. He must have picked up a cold along
with the infection in his hands.
Yes, Palmer said evenly. We should really be debreeding the burns, but I dont have the
tools . . .
It is the wages of the Golden Death, Gaultor said. One cannot channel such
immeasurable powers without them affecting him. The Golden Death is thus named for two
reasons.
We must get you help, Palmer said, picking new leaves and gently wrapping the hands
again.
Gaultor sat silently. Twice he winced from what must have been excruciating pain, but
he did nothing more. When Palmer had fnished he saw Gaultor looking up at the mountain
Markeeome.
We must go up, Gaultor said, but not moving.
First, we must get help . . .
No! Gaultors voice was suddenly strong. We must obtain the Key before anyone fnds
us.
Key? What . . .
The Key that will empower the most sacred objects allowing us, in their time, to open the
heavens to us that we might destroy Procyx.
Oh. Look, Gaultor, you are in no condition . . .
I know what I must do. The Mhyrnian continued to rest calmly. He smiled after a
moment. I see it so clearly nowhow an Infdel could possibly serve the purposes of the Great
God. Now he looked directly at Palmer. Martinyou have seen that I have the power to
heal, yet I cannot turn those powers upon myself. They must be applied to me by another, so
possessing.
What? You mean another Most High Nobleman?
Yes.
Can we fnd one? How . . .
I speak of you, my friend, Gaultor smiled.
Me? Palmer started, backing off. But Im not . . .
I have but to confer those powers upon you and you can heal me.
Surely, here on Mhyrn we could fnd another . . .
There are no others. I am the lastthe last, that is, until I confer the powers upon you.
Then there shall be two Most High Noblemen to the god Zorlone a true believer from birtha
holy man, Gaultors eyes seemed to look off at something remote and then see something clearly
as if for the frst time. . . . And the other a strangeran offworlderan Infdel.
But . . . Palmer stuttered. . . . But I cant! Im . . .
I will not force it upon you.
Gaultor, I want you to be healed. I know that you can heal, what with Lenore Aramus . . .
I just dont know that I could ever . . .
I say again, I will not force it upon you, Gaultor gazed without judgement at Palmer.
But, he looked up at Markeeome once more. We must go up into the mountain, in any event.
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Youre in no condition . . .
I said we must go! Gaultors eyes suddenly fashed with glints of that golden energy
Palmer had seen before, energies the Mhyrnian had used to bring down a hundred powerful star
vessels and burning his own hands in the process. Palmer nodded without hesitation, leaning
down to help the Most High Nobleman rise to his feet.
I can only hope that I might be healed up there, he turned to Palmer, gazing into his
eyes. But it is not to be expected, when the means for my healing can be had here and now.
I want to help, Gaultor. Really I want to.
Gaultor softened. I know you do, Martin. Forgive my persistence. Now, let us climb to the
left. I believe that the road of the gods is beyond that second hill there, behind that outcropping
of table trees. It will be an easier climb up the mountain if we can fnd the road.
Palmer moved his shoulder up beneath Gaultors armpit. He used the staff to balance
himself. Gaultor walked with him, holding his burned hands upwardcarefully trying to avoid
touching anything with them.
The foliage here was particularly thick. Tangling underbrush slowed their progress to a
fraction of what it might have been out in the open. Palmer carried the burden of keeping them
going. Twice, as they made their way up the frst ridge, Gaultor nearly passed out. They fell
repeatedly, Gaultor instinctively putting his hands out to stay the fall and succeeding only in
opening the blisters on his hands or tearing at the sensitive, disintegrating, burned fesh. When
they paused to rest at the top of the frst hill, Palmer took the time to inspect Gaultors hands
again. The leaf coverings had long fallen off. There was dirt and grime all over the blisters and
blood trickled from more than one freshly gouged wound. Several of the larger blisters had been
ruptured, the skin shriveled up over them again. This was not going to work.
Beyond that hill, Martin. The road leads to the shrine of Ambylor where the sacred
artifacts were once hidden. The Key should still be concealed within it. The Key shall open all
possibilities unto us. Let us hurry.
Palmer shifted his weight beneath Gaultor again. The trip down was easier, but more
treacherous. The ground was muddy and slippery. Palmer watched carefully where he placed
each steplooking for rocks protruding from the soil or rough, dead tree trunks. Amazingly,
there were no falls here. Palmer was taking more time to move. They rested at the gully for
nearly an hour. The rain continued steadily, and it was getting dark. Not good news, for while
Gaultor and Palmer needed rest, another night in the wet would only worsen the Mhyrnians
infections. They needed shelter, at the leasta fre and blankets. Even with those necessities,
Gaultor would most likely worsen.
I think we should try to reach the top before dark, Palmer said, climbing stiffy to his
feet. This a perfect place for a fash river. You ready, Gaultor?
The Mhyrnian did not answer. It took him three attempts for him to rise to his feet again.
Palmer shifted shoulders this time, shoring Gaultor up as they climbed the hill. Three falls later
he shifted back to the other side.
Between the unavoidable grunts of climbing, Palmer heard Gaultor trying to sing, of all
things. He decided not ask Gaultor what he was doing and pressed forward. The words were
mere mumbles; the tones squeaking mockeries of what they should have been. But as they
continued to climb, Palmer felt a lifting of his spirits. He was gaining his second wind.
The climb went faster now. Palmer had found a system and moved with a steady tread.
Gaultors singing had become stronger as well, and Palmer could discern a melody. After a while,
he found himself humming alongfollowing, however haltingly, the song Gaultor was trying to
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sing. His strength seemed to grow even stronger. At last they crested the hill.
Below them, a three-meter wide trough made of carefully ftted stone blocks cut into the
jungle. While ferns and vines grew up between the cracks, it was immeasurably more attractive
a path than the one they had just blazed. The roadway disappeared out into the valley beneath
the trees while just below them it began angling upward into the mountain, also losing itself in
the vegetation.
It is the road of the gods, Gaultor said, his voice gravelly. It leads to the shrine of
Ambylor.
Where the Key is kept?
Yes. Let us hasten.
Palmer shouldered Gaultor again and moved with frustrating care down the hill. This
slope was steeper than the one coming up so they had to be especially careful. Even though this
was the last leg of their trek to the road, it was the hardest. The hours of diffcult exertion were
again taking their toll. Gaultor had stopped singing and merely grunted and puffed with each
diffcult, descending step. Palmer felt his second wind slipping away so fast that he wondered,
at the end of each step, if he could possibly go on like this. He took to looking ahead at the
landscapefnding a tree and saying to himself that if he could just reach that tree he would
stop, and they didnt need to go any further.
This isnt going to work, Gaultor said fnally amidst gasps. Why will you not heal me?
he asked, his voice near pleading. We cannot die here, or all will be lost! I cannot see why . . .
Suddenly Gaultor toppled to the ground, unconscious. His left hand glanced across a
jagged outcropping of rock, breaking new blisters and tearing a large swath of skin off. Blood
poured from the wound.
Palmer fell to his knees in despair, his staff dropping and sliding down the mud into the
darkening shadows.
I cant anymore . . . Palmer sobbed at the rain. Its just too much . . . I cant . . .
Thunder broke over his head. Palmer sat back on his heels not caring any longer. He
refused to look at Gaultorrefused to care about his bloated, ugly handsrefused to care about
the galaxy any longer. Let it come, he hissed angrily at the clouds. Come on, destroy us all!
Ruin the planet. Damn everything!!
After a time, he gently took Gaultors blood drenched hand, carefully replaced the hanging
skin over the wound and choosing leaves from a nearby tree, wrapped each hand in them,
squeezing at the tear to try to stop the bleeding.
Hours passed. Gaultor slept, delirious. His fever rose higher and the rain continued to
fall. Palmer dragged the Mhyrnian under a low table tree, gaining a measure of shelter, but
there was still no blanketsno freno antibiotics, let alone rejuv projectors. Palmer seriously
considered leaving Gaultor and trying to fnd the hoversleds on his ownon foot, but he knew
that RoseStar must be at least ffty kilometers away through dense jungle and who could guess
what other dangers. He unclipped the helmet from his belt and tried again to get some sort of
response from its transmitters, but found the fuel cells utterly empty. They were dead.
Gaultor mumbled something in Mhyrnese. Palmer listened. He sat beside the Mhyrnian,
his legs huddled up against his chest. And now he cursed himself for not taking Gaultors advice
while the shaman was still coherent enough to pass on the power of the Golden Death. He had
witnessed its healing power when Lenores sight had been restored and when he and Cosgrove
had been freed of the biotranz grip of the outlaw combine woman. Lightning fashed. Palmer
looked at Gaultorragged, pale, sweating and shivering all at oncehis hands disfgured.
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Palmer wondered what he must look like and then laughed once. What a sight they must be
The Ones, as Gaultor had said, whatever that meant.
Another barrage of lightning taunted a false moment of daylight but withheld its thunder.
Gaultors eyes opened suddenly. He turned to look at Palmer, and Palmer immediately sensed
coherence behind those eyes. Gaultor was lucid. But for how long?
Ill do it, Palmer said quickly. Give me those powers and tell me what to do to heal you.
Gaultor squinted at him for a moment, then smiling faintly he spoke. It is well. Give me
your hands. More lightning blinked free of thunder. Palmer reached his dirty hands out toward
the Mhyrnian. Gaultor reached up and took them in his own. The movement started them
bleeding again. Palmer felt the sickening, soft puffness of the blisters in Gaultors palms squeeze
against his own. The shaman struggled for a moment beneath the pain. His grip increased until
it was frm and strong. A moment later he began to speak quiet words in Mhyrnese.
For nearly fve minutes the words continued. Somehow, Palmer expected to feel some
tangible energy in his handsperhaps something even visceral from the bestowal of such
powers, but there was nothing. Palmer went on, listening only halfway to what Gaultor said
until it dawned on him the Mhyrnian was suddenly speaking in Interworld again.
. . . And you shall found worlds and nations. From you and your children shall come The
Two Brothersthe Warriors of Light, who shall fnally destroy the great evil, Echion, in the due
days of the Creator. And I say unto you that the hour is nearly come that a man shall come to you
from the far heavenseven the highest heavens of this order and give unto you a sacred robe.
You are to wear this robe always, until Procyx is destroyed, and as long as you do, no evil can
overcome youno not even the evil of a terrible one from the Dawn Era. Now rejoice, Martin, for
the end of the days of grief is truly at handeven at the doors. These things are true, and I say
them as one who has authority to say them. Be it so.
Gaultor released Palmers hands. He waited in the darknessin silence. Finally he spoke
to Gaultor.
Well?
You will know what to do, Martin. As I have said at other times, do not doubt or try to
reason. Just do it.
Palmer shook his head, still not understanding. He could hear Gaultor settling back and
soon the Mhyrnian fell into unconsciousness again.
Palmer stood up in the darkness, beneath the rain. All right, he said after a time. What
am I to do? How do I . . . and then, suddenly, in his mind he saw himself pouring water over
Gaultors hands from his helmet. Palmer shook his head, but the image persisted. Seven times
. . . he said, as if repeating something he both heard and did not hear, but knew to be right. I
pour water on Gaultors hands seven timesfrom my helmet.
Palmer found himself disappointed. Somehow, he had expected some magical, golden
sparkles to come from his hands that would heal Gaultor instantly, just as he had seen when
Gaultor had freed them from the tranz captivity of the combine woman. But apparently, that was
not what was to happen here. Sighing, Palmer took his helmet and holding it upside down began
catching rainwater in it.
It took a while before there was enough to pour. Then, quietlysolemnly, Palmer poured
the water over Gaultors hands. Reason screamed suddenly into his mind that getting them wet
with contaminated water was the worst thing he could have done. Blindly following Gaultors
directions, he ignored reason and waited for more water to gather for the second dispensation.
He listened to the whisper of the rain in the darkness. The thunder had settled down and
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there was only the sound of the rain. No, there was something elsethe sound of water pouring
as if from a drainpipe. Palmer listened carefully, stood and turned, trying to locate it. Abruptly
his helmet swung under it and within a few seconds, it was full of water. He knelt again and
poured the water from the trees above onto the hands of the unconscious Gaultor a second time.
Within just a few minutes, he had poured the dirty water from the trees over the burned and
infected hands seven times.
Palmer waited. Gaultor did not stir. Palmer could just barely see him in the darkness.
Then, suddenly, the rain stopped.
Palmer sighed in relief. He moved carefully under the tree beside Gaultor and felt his
forehead. It was cool, and the Mhyrnians breathing was now that of the soft fow of deep sleep.
His fever had broken!
Yes! Palmer whispered beneath the frst hope that the Mhyrnian was healing
somehowimpossibly, he was healing! His heart surged with gratitude and excitement. Though
his clothes were soaked, his skin wet, the air was amazingly pleasant and dry. He leaned back
against the tree on the opposite side of Gaultor and looked out over the road of the gods as it
disappeared down the foothills of Markeeome into the valley below.
The clouds were beginning to break. Palmer saw his frst star only a few minutes later
and then, shining ever brighter through the thinning clouds grew a rich blue glow that moments
later pierced the overcast. Procyx poured its brilliance across the jungle. Palmer watched it for a
time and then, turning away, he saw it.
There was a trace of the dirty water he had poured over Gaultors hands remaining, pooled
in his helmet, lying on the ground where he had left it. The water glowed with a soft, inner,
amber lightas if it were molten gold. Palmer bowed his head, his eyes stinging from gratitude
to whatever god it was that had a name so sacred that it could not be spokena god that had
bestowed power on an Infdel named Martin Palmer.
Sleep took him at last.
* * *
Palmer woke to the sounds of the Mhyrnian jungle. He lay on fat, smooth stonepolished
like marble. He felt surprisingly warm and nearly dry and the smell of cooking meat made his
mouth water. He opened his eyes to see Gaultor, his back to him, working over a fre.
Gaultor?
Come and eat, my brother, Gaultor replied, holding up a cooked birds carcass impaled on
a spick.
Your hands . . . Palmer rose to his feet. He was stiff, but eager to see how Gaultor was.
He moved quickly around and saw the Mhyrnians hands a little pink, but otherwise completely
normal.
I thank you for healing me, Gaultor said. His face was free of any peeling or hints of even
frst-degree burns. His voice was utterly clear of congestion. He looked down into the fre. But
then I should have known that the Creator would provide for us. My time has not yet come and
we must both be preserved. Now, eat.
Palmer was voracious. He had downed nearly half the bird before he remembered that
Gaultor might want some.
Have it all, Gaultor smiled. I have begun my fast.
A fast? Is that wise? Surely you must still feel weak from your illness.
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I am renewedand I have eaten. Much. Three times I slept and three times I awoke to
hunt for food and to eat.
Palmer looked around him. Only now did he really notice that they were in the troughon
the road of the gods. How did we . . .
. . . Come here? I awoke a day ago and carried you here. You have slept since then until
now.
I slept a whole day? You should have wakened meI couldve helped you huntand the
outlaw combines! Who knows . . .
I have only seen two more of their fghters making a surveillance fight. Since then,
nothing else. Thank you for your care, but you needed your rest more than food. Now satisfy your
hunger. It is well, Gaultor stood, looking up the road as it went on under the shadows of the
jungle, higher up into the mountain. Our quest truly begins here, and we are both well, fed and
rested. He turned just as Palmer fnished tearing and chewing the last of the cooked meat from
the remaining leg.
I am thirsty, Palmer said, standing. He laughed. Youd think after all that rain we could
fnd some water about.
Gaultor smiled again. Up the road away we will fnd basins for drinking. They are
imbedded in the walls every so often to refresh the pilgrim. You may have my share. If you are
ready, let us begin.
Palmer took the time to take care of his bodily functions, then returned to the road.
Gaultor stood lookingstaring up into its shadows.
The combine people may be back, Palmer said turning a wary gaze to the sky.
The road ahead will soon disappear beneath the forest, Gaultor began walking as Palmer
joined him. And that is good, for it will help conceal us from such unworthy eyes.
Palmer nodded but knew otherwise. Without their being equipped with infrared liars,
the combine ships could fnd them if they were determined enough. Still, being out of normal
visual sight was always preferable, and they needed every bit of help and luck they could get. He
followed Gaultor up the road.
The trees covered them over. It was like a great canopy of green, softening the light
overhead. Gaultor led the wayenergetic, obviously anxious to be at the end of the road rather
than where they were. Here, his height served him well, for his strides were signifcantly longer
than Palmers, making him have to quicken his pace from time to time to keep up.
What was most amazing about the road of the gods was that it was perfectly straight. So
often roads leading up into mountains wound and twisted at the mercy of the geography. Here
the narrow path was straight with a slowly increasing incline. By midday it must have been a
good twelve degrees.
Palmer was in excellent shape, but working to keep up with Gaultor proved ever more
tiring. At last Palmer sighted one of the drinking basins the Mhyrnian had told him about. He
used the opportunity to rest as well as to drink.
The water was pure, somehow. There was a slight turbulence when Palmer dropped his
face into it to drink. The basin did not appear to have caught the rain that had fallen two days
earlier. Gaultor stood behind him and as if reading his thoughts said, The basins are fed by
springs. The water here is the purest you will ever fnd on Mhyrn. Palmer dropped his face to
quench his thirst again, and again. When at last he felt satiated, he wiped his chin and watched
Gaultor reading hieroglyphs on the wall.
The shrine, he said, looking up the road again, eager. We should be able to reach it by
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nightfall if we move on quickly.
Palmer started up the road without a word and Gaultor soon overtook him.
Through breaks in the trees, Palmer could see the real majesty of Markeeome growing
ever grander above them. Its peaks were lost in clouds and snow covered the higher slopes.
The vegetation changed gradually. The air grew thinner. The incline of the road stabilized to
consistently twelve to ffteen degrees. Occasionally they came to sections of steps. On occasion
the road turned into a long stairway that could cause even the fttest to faint. Palmer guessed
that the frst such section of steps must have gone up thirty stories. Later, they encountered a
seventy-story staircase. Both he and Gaultor rested twice on this latter ascent since each of the
steps was one and one-half times higher than normal. Amazingly, when they reached the top, the
road began again and was perfectly level, again disappearing into the trees.
The air was cooler. A different species of table trees interspersed themselves with those of
lower elevations, and all about were other kinds of shrubs and short trees that looked like pines.
Their fragrance wasnt quite right, nor their shapetoo sphericalbut the needle-like leaves
dark green seemed to herald their entrance into a pine forest.
Here the road fared outward, the walls slanting down and disappearing into the ground
as if burying themselves. A large, circular clearing opened before Palmer and Gaultor at its
center. Palmer jolted, for he recognized this terrain and impressive, ornate structure of stone
from the RNA implant he had gained back on Ahrgol.
The shrine of Ambylor, he said and Gaultor, a few steps ahead, stopped suddenly, turning
on him.
It is. But how did you know that?
Ive studied some about Procyx and your prophecies . . .
Palmer felt a sudden fush of panic. Intellectually, he recognized what was happening
to him. The RNA implant began fashing stabs of its alternate reality within him. Beyond his
control he was completely immersed in it. He was Ambylor again, walking up to the shrine;
worrying about the prophecies; kneeling to pray; confronting his son and the hunters again;
shaming all into repentanceall but his son . . .
Palmer felt someone tugging at himshouting at him from some other world . . .
He knelt before the shrine, felt the burning stab of his own sons sword and fell fat on his
face and then . . .
Then, abruptly, Palmer found himself surrounded by a brilliant, glowing gold. Paralyzed,
he felt himself turned over and saw above him, not his son, but another of the Most High
Noblemen. Gentle hands reached forward, covering his eyes. The golden brilliance fared into
dazzling power then fell away . . . and Martin Palmer found himself beneath the shadow of the
shrine, on his back, gazing up into Gaultors face.
Another bewitching? Gaultor asked with a soothing reassuring smile, helping him sit up.
Palmer was covered in sweat, his heart racing.
You might say that, he caught his breath. It was an artifcial implanted simulation of
the martyrdom of Ambylor.
Gaultor gazed at him briefy, then shook his head. It cannot have been artifcial. There
was enchantment laced throughout its fabric.
But a machine produced it.
Look, Gaultor helped Palmer to his feet.
The shrine stood open, just as Palmer had opened it as Ambylor in the simulacron. Inside
knelt the solitary fgure in its posture of reverence, and on either side stood the empty cradles
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where the stone and sphere should have been.
The Key is gone as well as the instruments, Gaultor said sadly. I dont know what I
should do, Martin! The Key should yet be hidden here! The shrine has remained closed since
the death of Ambylor. My great, great grandfather closed it secretly after the martyrdom, and it
could not have been opened since that time. We all assumed that the Key remained in its most
secret hiding place. But it is gone. I cannot understand it! And how is it that you knew how to
open the shrine? MartinI fear for the fate of the Key. You see, only my ancestral line of the
Most High Noblemen to Zorl has remained. Only I should have been able to open the shrine. But
it opened now, beneath your touch. It is impossible! Of course, you too are such a one nowone of
the Most High Noblemen. But even so, I have not told you the secrets. Yet you spoke the sacred
words with exactnessyou touched the stones in their proper order.
Palmer was confused.
I cannot understand! Gaultor paced uneasily. Those secrets can be had only by the
Most High Noblemen! No one outside of the order could know them . . . unless, Gaultor peered
carefully into the shrine. Unless agents of the Evil One have created this enchanted record of
yours in order to preserve it against the day when they might want to plunder the instruments.
But no, the instruments were gone when Ambylor came to the shrine. Gaultor halted suddenly,
turning to peer back into the shrine again. Or were they? He turned quickly to Palmer again.
And what of the Key in your record?
The records of the Martyrdom say that when Ambylor came to this place the artifacts
were not here. My fathers have assumed that the Key, hidden more carefully and beneath a
strong, protecting power, remained here, undisturbedawaiting this day. But now, I do not know
. . . It may be that that is not true.
How can we know?
You are one who sees, Martin. And now you are a Most High Nobleman, as well. Call up
those gifts and see what really happened when Ambylor opened the shrine.
Palmer took a deep breath. He bowed his head in reverenceseeking the powers of a Most
High Nobleman, as he had done before washing Gaultors hands seven times from his helmet.
After a breath, he looked up. Before, when the RNA implant had overwhelmed him,
Palmer had seen things through the eyes of Ambylora fabricated, yet supposedly accurate
Ambylor. Now he became an eyewitnessa seer, looking back across the centuries at a sight that
none but the real Ambylor could have seen.
The great Mhyrnian martyr knelt before the shrine, speaking words the watching Palmer
now understood. He touched the stones in the same order Palmer had done when he had thought
he was Ambylor in the simulacron. The shrine opened. Palmer stepped up close behind Ambylor,
gazing over his shoulder inside. Within it, resting in their cradles, was a slab of igneous stone
and a sphere of solid pluridium with a blue, star shaped jewel embedded in its top. Ambylor
placed his hands upon the kneeling fgure that rested between the artifacts and bowing his head
slid the fgure carefully aside. A second, hidden chamber opened before him. Ambylor and Palmer
peered into it. Ambylors face burst into astonishment.
No! Ambylor shook his head, incredulous. The sacred instruments are here but the
Keythe Key is gone! This is surely the dawning of the days of grief. Oh, Great God whose name
is too holy to be spokenI beseech Thee; if I am he who is to be slain, how then, without the
Key, shall the great powers be awakened when the Eye of Echion shall pour down death upon so
many worlds? Who are the Holy Man and the Infdel? And how shall these sacred instruments
be protected, that they be not removed as well? Wilt Thou have mercy upon thy children across
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all stars and throughout all heavens? I pray Thee, preserve and restore the sacred means
of destroying the End Star of Grief. Please . . . Father! I shall go to my death, as Thou hast
proscribedbut please preserve Thy childrenall of themholy and Infdel alike! What can I do
that Thou mayest have such mercy?
Ambylor fattened himself upon the ground in a prayer so fervent that Palmer could feel
its power even now, across three and a half centuries. For nearly a minute Ambylor supplicated
his God.
Ambylor, a quiet voice spoke to the soon to be martyr. Ambylor lifted his head and,
together with Palmer, turned to face a man hooded, plain and soft spoken, standing in silhouette
against the sunset. He wore a dark, thick cloak. His long, white beard was braided and wrapped
around his shoulders like a scarf. After a moment, a quiet canyon wind caught a furrow of his
clothing, rustling it softly.
You have been heard. I come in service to the great plan. Be calm. The Key is safe. But
the time has come to remove the sacred instruments also unto a safe place. Give them unto me.
I will take them whither I am commanded. But know this, and hear this promise. They shall fall
into the hands of a chosen courierone who shall be raised up to protect and deliver them unto
the Holy Man and the Infdel in the due time of wisdom. He that shall bring them shall begin the
days of joy, preparatory to the coming of the End Star of Joy before there shall be, for each of us,
a new heaven. He that shall bring them shall give to all the children of the stars the most plain
and precious treasures and words, hidden from men since the beginning of the times of darkness.
And these great treasures shall never again be completely hidden away, until the days of the End
Star of Joy are fulflled.
Ambylor bowed his head in silent thanks, and then rising to his feet he reached inside the
shrine and carefully removed the artifacts. He began to give them to the man when he hesitated.
What is it? the hooded fgure asked him.
Be not angry with me, Ambylor said, holding the objects back, close to him. But how
shall I know that you are a holy one and not an angel of the Liar, Echion?
I am of the order of the Holy Noblemen to the Great God. Shall not my robes prove my
right?
Ambylor thought for a moment. They should. But the Liar has great black witcheries and
priestcraftsand he is a master of the sciences, and can do many great deceptions.
Is it not written that the robes that reveal the selfeven the Armor of Righteousness can
neither be overcome nor controlled, even by the most powerful of the Black Arts?
It is so written.
And you wish to see that, as a Most High Nobleman to the Great God, I wear the Armor
of Righteousness?
Be not angry with me. I fear I must so ask, for I am but the last of them that are to guard
the artifacts and I must do so with all the caution and wisdom I possess. You have asked me to
give them to you, and I know you not, though you seem familiar to me.
Very well. Replace the artifacts within the safety of the shrine and close them up against
the Black Arts. Then, summon up and clothe yourself within the powers of the Golden Death,
against which no witchery of evil can stand, and then face me. If I am a true brother, there shall
be only joy between us. If I am a liar, then I shall perish before you, as shall all who uphold the
works of the Great Liar.
Ambylor nodded. He put the artifacts back, closed the shrine and, standing for a moment,
his back to the man, surrounded himself in the golden glories that Palmer had seen surrounding
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Gaultor. When those brilliances shone with incredible radiance Ambylor turned again to face the
man who now had opened his cloak.
Palmer looked at the robe as well and staggered under its power. There was, here, every
sweet recollection, every noble delight, every pure beauty Palmer had ever experienced or
dreamed, or yearned or imaginedand more. It extended past thought and reason and reached
beyond into realms impossibly wondrousnot capable of being imagined by any fnite human.
And yet this was familiar somehow, and Palmer felt the pure and potent love of The True
Home calling to him from it. It held him so frmly that only at the mans closing of his cloak did
any sense of what Palmer was supposed to be doing consciously return to him. He cleared the
moisture from his eyes and saw Ambylor, yet surrounded in dancing, golden halos, down upon his
knees before the man as if to worship him.
Stand, brother. I am but a servant, as you. Now that you have beheld my armor, what do
you wish to do?
I know that you are a true servant of the plan, now Ambylor went to the shrine, opening
it again and removing the artifacts. He stepped forward and placed them in the mans hands.
And I go to my end with some measure of hope. The Golden Death fell dark. Now tell me, if it
is right, of the Key. It is gone. How shall it come into the hands of the Holy Man and the Infdel?
I will tell, for there is one who sees us even now, from the days far off, yet soon to come,
the Most High Nobleman to the Great God turned and looked directly at Palmer. I speak of him
of the future who witnesses this eventeven the Infdel who sees, fallen from the far heavens,
gazing back into these days by the power of the Creator. He watches us and waits to hear.
Palmer felt a chilling thrill at this. He marveled that Ambylor appeared to take all of this
in stridethis servant of the plan speaking, apparently, into nothingness, as seen by Ambylor
but was, in fact, conversing across centuries of time, toward Martin Palmer.
Listen well, kind Infdel. The Key is to be gained in the high mountain of the One who
sleeps, in the holy place there. The Holy Man shall know of it. Tell him. The man then turned
quietly and strode off into the shadows of the dusk, carrying the orb and the stone, and was gone.
Palmer found himself again in the present, with Gaultor.
The artifacts shall fall into our hands when the time is right. Palmer told Gaultor. Until
then, were supposed to fnd this Key you spoke of in some sort of holy placewhatever that is,
up high in the mountain of the One who sleeps.
Gaultor nodded. I know the place. He looked upward into the clouds. The Place of Hope.
It is up there. The road of the gods ends here at the shrine, but there is a secret path known only
to the Most High Noblemen that shall take us to the holy place.
Gaultor looked around him. Dusk had fallen heavily. All Palmer could see of him now was
a dim silhouette with only the suggestion of facial features. The pathway has its treacherous
turns. It is best that we rest here until dawn.
Palmer nodded. He noticed new hunger now, but it was only just a little less gnawing than
the burden of exhaustion he suddenly felt weighing down over his shoulders and chest and eyes.
Should we try to fnd food? Palmer asked, looking around for some sort of comfortable
place to sleep.
You forget that I fast. If you wish . . .
No, Palmer said, fghting a yawn. It would be too diffcult, anyway. He found a place
between two trees and walked over to it. After settling down, sleep dropped over him within
minutesa deep sleep that was heavier than Palmer had expected. He did not see what Gaultor
did.
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* * *
Gaultor had fxed him breakfast the next morning, as before. And, as before, the
Mhyrnian refused to eat. Palmer wondered at this as he followed Gaultor up higher and higher
into the mountain.
Gaultorthat record I experiencedthe one you said was enchanted?
Yes, Martin? Gaultor pulled himself up over a craggy depression in the rocks they
climbed. Palmer followed, grunting from the effort.
In the record, Ambylor knew nothing of this Key were trying to fnd.
The existence of the Key has been kept as the greatest secret of the ways of Zorlas a
protection. That proves that the origin of that record of yours is unholy. And it is just as well, for
if the existence of the Key were known, and it was stolen, then there would surely be little hope
for the destruction of Procyx.
They climbed on in silence. Hours passed. By midday there were patches of snow
everywhere, and by late afternoon, Palmer found himself shivering as he climbed blindly behind
Gaultor. He didnt really care about his surroundings, now. There was only the climb. It grew
colder and colder. The snow was deep and clouds hovered so close that Palmer felt he might
reach up and touch them. The ascent had been an incredibly demanding climbsteep and, as
Gaultor had promised, treacherous in places. Now, however, the greatest challenge was the cold.
A meager wind amplifed the chill by tens of degrees.
Still, they pushed on.
The clouds fell upon them at last in a heavy fog. It was as though the world was growing a
misty, hazy gold and then pink and fnally a lavender blue-gray.
How much farther? Palmer asked Gaultor who moved tiredly ahead of him. Its getting
dark. If we dont fnd shelter . . .
Gaultor stopped. Palmer nearly ran into him but pulled himself up short. What is it?
The Holy place, Gaultor said and disappeared suddenly into a dark cave that Palmer had
only just now seen. Anxious to get out of the wind, Palmer followed.
The cave wound to the left and to the right, over and over. Palmer called out to Gaultor
but received no answer. He pushed forward in the dark, bumping into a wall or two as the cave
twisted and climbed. He persisted, stumbling, until at last, he thought he perceived the slightest
traces of faint warmth, wafting invitingly on the air. He turned and followed it carefully. After
a time and more twists of the cave, the sound of running water came to his ears. He pushed
forward toward it fastereagerly. Then, less than a minute later, Palmer found himself at the
opening of a large, dimly lit, cavernous room, apparently hewn out of the rock.
Palmer stepped inside. The room must have measured twenty meters across and
forty meters high. Opposite him was a doorway, behind which fell a constant fow of water
apparently the water he had heard. Behind the clear waterfall there was a wall of moss-covered
stone. The ceiling was made of multicolored clear crystals, set in pluridium. Through it, the last
of the daylight shone in fading illumination like stained glass. Gaultor stood in the center of the
chamber near a large, circular pit, tossing in the dry branches of a vine that grew all around the
walls.
Palmer moved further into the room, looking about him in fascination. The walls were
dark, but dim, ancient-looking murals could be seen there.
You may help me, as one of the Most High Noblemen, Gaultor said, looking up at him.
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Take only those branches and leaves that are dead.
Palmer obeyed. As he approached one of the vines he saw that the living leaves were
white, apparently devoid of chlorophyll. Albino plants? He carefully picked the dead branches
off the vines and nearly half an hour later, all that was dead lay in the pit. Gaultor knelt, now,
removing his shoes. Then, raising his hands above his head, he spoke quietly.
The words were not Mhyrnese. Palmer watched for a time and then felt as if he should
remove his boots. This he did, waiting.
Gaultor fnished.
Suddenly the dead branches of vine in the pit burst into fame, flling the room with light.
Palmer gazed at the fre, extending his hands to heat them by it. The room warmed to comfort.
Palmer closed his eyes, relishing it.
He sat cross-legged before the fre for a while, watching it burn. The branches were
engulfed in the fames, but they seemed not to be consumed. Palmer turned to tell Gaultor of it
and saw the Mhyrnian gazing about at the paintings.
The murals were fascinating. They blended into one another, covering every square
centimeter of the circular chamber. Palmer stood, gazing with Gaultor at them.
Central among them was a great tree. The structure of its branches and trunk made it
look like a spreading fountain. The tree bore a white fruit that looked as if it glowed. Beneath it,
men and women picked and ate the fruit and rejoiced. Above the tree there hovered in the air a
majestic white city, taken up from the groundrays of brilliance shining from it with a light that
rivaled anything Palmer had ever seen executed in paint before.
He turned his eyes to the next scene. Here a man knelt before crystal stones. Several
glowed as if with dazzling brilliance and from the smoke surrounding the hot stones a faint,
shining hand could be seen, touching the crystals.
Another mural showed a man standing on a rock above an altar. The altar blazed with fre
that stretched far out beyond it to consume vain men and burn trenches of water dug all about
the altar. Above this fgure, ascending into the far heavens, there rode a burning chariot.
Another scene shone two great waterfalls pouring onto dry ground and disappearing into
it. Multitudes of people walked between the great falls, and mounted on a rock toward which
they moved there stood a staff with a crosspiece lashed to it. On the staff there hung a snake
and, above all of this, a column of fames that ascended up into the stars above.
Yet another mural showed a great statue made of many metals about to be smashed to
pieces by a massive stone, rolling down from a great mountain.
This is the Place of Hope, Gaultor said quietly. And these are symbolsthe shadows
of the work of the Creator in another time on another worldeven another universe. Shadows
framing great truths to be revealed here and among all worlds some dayin due time. The Place
of Hope. It is ftting that we come here for the great Key.
Palmer looked all around the room at the murals, the fre, the crystalline ceiling, the water
falling behind the doorway leading to stone. At last he said, What does this Key look like?
Gaultor shook his head. I dont know. It is small enough to be held in ones hand. Beyond
that . . .
From behind them, the fre from the pit fared. Both Palmer and Gaultor turned to look at
it. It swirled upward into a dazzling, self-perpetuating column of fame. It spun and whirled like
a great, standing vortex of light.
Look! Gaultor whispered. Palmer followed his gaze to the walls near the foor where the
vines grew. Upon them grew exquisite, white blossoms. And now the waterfall roaring like the
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waves of a great sea. Fire burned behind the waterhot, white fre.
We are to go, Gaultor said evenly. There.
Palmer looked at the dazzling, blazing waterfall. Gaultor bowed his head once then walked
into the water. When he passed through it there was a blinding fash and he was gone.
Palmer stared after him, alone in the room. He could not be certain, but it seemed as
though Gaultor had vaporized once he had passed through the water and touched the white fre.
For a terrible moment, Palmer cowered back. All of this had happened so fast. He had had no
designs on becoming a Most High Nobleman to the god Zorl. He had not wanted any of this. All
he wanted was to see Procyx destroyedto see his parents deaths avenged.
The fre behind the water began to ficker. Was it going out? If it did, would he be trapped
here, while Gaultor went on to . . . to what? The column of fames roared behind him. He looked
around at the murals. They shone with a light of their own and there was depth to them. It was
as if Palmer were looking out great windows at an ancient, unknown world beyond. The foating,
shining city hurt his eyes to look at it. The glowing crystal stones bristled with living light.
The white fre fickered out for a moment, then spread back into life, tenuous, now. Palmer
took a deep breath and walked into the falling water. A moment later, the white fre engulfed
himsearing cold, or was it hot? He heard the rushing of great windsthe roar of endless
oceans. It was dazzling! Brilliant!
And then he heard music . . .
To be continued in the October 2003 issue of
Deep Magic...

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